


Mirror, Mirror

by MissScorp



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, And maybe other things because I evil Scorp, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick is Robin, Drama, F/M, Gen, Gil Arroyo is Malcolm Bright's Parent, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jason is adopted earlier than DC canon, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm gets a friend or three, Malcolm is a danger prone dope, Might be a Jessica Whitly and Bruce Wayne relationship implied, Near Drowning, PTSD out the whazoo, Pre-Series, Set in Prodigal Son Universe, Suicide Attempt, There’s also a kidnapping, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 78,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27735448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: A former associate of Martin Whitly’s has decided to get revenge on him by taking away the only thing he cares about: Malcolm. There’s just a big black bat standing in the way.
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16
Collections: Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Extended Posts





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there and welcome! This work is a crossover between Batman (picking and choosing from comics, movies, video games, and television) with Prodigal Son. As it is a crossover and set in Prodigal Son’s universe, events in Batman might be altered/adapted for a new spin on them.
> 
> I want to send a special thank you to the lovely Jameena for helping me select this as the story I would write. She helped me iron out the premise. She was also the artist on this piece and will be adding what she came up with soon as life settles down!
> 
> I also want to thank the truly wonderful Neo for stepping up and beta’ing this monster for me! I truly appreciate it since the story took on a bit of a life of its own and was a lot for anybody to beta!
> 
> If you like this story, please, bookmark/kudo it! 
> 
> Thank you all, take care! 🥰

A cold, bitter wind hit Malcolm soon as he stepped out from his taxi. A chill went through him in spite of the fact that he wore gloves, a winter coat, and a heavy sweatshirt. He hunched his shoulders and stuck his hands in his coat pockets to try and keep from losing what little heat he had. The rational part of him told him to climb back in the warm cab and have the driver take him to Gil and Jackie’s. 

He ignored that part. 

Which was easy to do given the cabbie didn’t wait around to see if he’d change his mind. No, he pulled away the second Malcolm shut the car door. 

Another part of him, this one disguising itself as his rational part, urged him to chase after the cab. 

He ignored that part, too. 

Something else he found easy to do.

Especially since the cab’s taillights were now two small red dots in the distance. 

Malcolm gasped as he turned to stare out at the black water. The sound it made as it slapped against the docks soothed him. The briny tang that teased his nostrils comforted him. Bolstered, Malcolm made his way towards where some ships waited for their cargo to get unloaded. 

Five minutes later, he realized he shouldn’t have snuck out of the house. 

Not at two o’clock in the morning, anyway. 

He also shouldn’t have taken a cab down to the docks to search for Gil. 

Not when he had no idea where his stakeout location even was. 

He also realized that what he should have done was called Jackie, told her he couldn’t sleep, he needed to talk, ask her to come pick him up. 

If he had, he wouldn’t now find himself surrounded by four men in black masks, each one tripled him in weight and height, and all with guns sticking out the waistband of their pants. 

“Shoulda stayed home, kid.” As if Malcolm hadn’t figured that detail out on his own. “Docks ain’t no place for a squirt like you.”

Malcolm took offense at being called squirt but wisely kept his mouth shut. He was in enough trouble; he didn’t need to go inviting himself more. 

“Look at them fancy ass sneakers he’s got on,” the one to his right rasped. “Gotta be worth a couple bucks, easy.” 

“Down, T.” The first man’s lips peeled back in a smile that chilled Malcolm to the bone. “He’s gonna give up them sneakers and a whole lot more before we’re through with him.”

Malcolm’s heart hammered in his chest as he deduced the man’s meaning. A quick look around told him running would be futile. He had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. His only option was the water. Freezing to death or drowning in the Hudson was far more preferable to what these men planned for him.

“Thinkin’ he should hand over all his valuables before we give him a hurtin’ he won’t soon forget.” 

Low murmurs accompanied that statement. Sweat ran cold on Malcolm’s skin, and he smelled his own rising fear; the edges of his vision blurred as he shot a single feral look over his shoulder, hoping the cab driver changed his mind and came back. 

No such luck. 

Not that Malcolm was surprised. 

If it wasn’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. 

“If the kid’s got a pair of sneakers like that...” A thump on the back of his head left him seeing stars. “Guaranteed he’s gonna have a boatload of money on him.”

“I want that fancy watch of his.”

Malcolm really didn’t want to give up his watch. His mother got it for his birthday in lieu of a car. She’d be quite annoyed with him if he let these men take it. Deep down, he acknowledged she’d be a bit more upset at the fact that he got beat up while down here at the docks than she would be about his stolen watch. 

So would Gil after he found out how he came here to find him. 

_He’s already going to tear me a new one for this,_ Malcolm thought, wetting his lips with his tongue. 

Deservedly, too. 

_Had I not come here..._

The man to his right lunged at him. Malcolm jumped back, barely stifling a gasp, and gazed at the grinning man with wide eyes while the rest of the men laughed and jeered. 

“Aw, what’sa matter, pretty boy?” One taunted. “Don’t you wanna play with us?” 

_No_ , he really didn’t. 

Especially since their version of play differed immensely from his. Only to himself did Malcolm admit he enjoyed pain. To a point.

He also chose what form of pain and how much of it. _Even masochists have their limits._

If the pressure was extremely bad, he made thin cuts in his arms and upper thighs with the razor-blade he hid in a box under his bed. 

If he needed to ground himself, he made small holes in the palms of his hands and the back of his feet with the sewing needles he swiped from Louisa’s sewing kit. 

Hot wax poured on his stomach or inner thigh also worked when he needed the bright bite of pain to chase back the dark things always screaming at him from within the white noise filling his head. 

These men planned on delivering a lot more than a few hard slaps to his face. Malcolm had never seen such a predatory look in eyes before. Even his father, a notorious serial killer known as The Surgeon, didn’t look at Gil the way these men currently were him. An animal’s hunger burned in the gazes trained on him. Malcolm’s blood began to pulse, quickly, helplessly. He had to find a way out if this mess before these men tore his flesh from his bones. 

“How about I give you my sneakers, my wallet, and my watch?” He offered in a shaky voice. He’d give them anything at this point to avoid what they planned for him. “My gloves are leather with a cashmere lining.” He was babbling at this point, but he didn’t care. He had to keep them talking long enough for anyone to happen by. “And my coat will definitely keep you...”

“Shaddup.” 

“Plea—” Malcolm yelped as his arms were twisted behind his back. He struggled against the man who held him to not avail. “No, listen...” 

Pain exploded across his face. Not the sharp and momentarily distracting kind he found he enjoyed, but a blinding sort he didn’t much care for. It was followed by a fist to his gut that knocked the breath out of him. Had him retching. 

For a moment, just one, he thought he might vomit what little contents he had in his stomach all over the shoes of the man who held him. 

For a moment, just one, he wished he pushed his mother harder about the self-defense classes he wanted to take — not that Malcolm believed anything he learned in those classes would be of any use against these men. 

Another fist connected with the left side of his rib cage. 

Malcolm swore he heard ribs snap. 

Or cracked at the least.

He didn’t get a chance to focus long, though, as another fist sunk into his right kidney. He’d have doubled over if not for the guy holding him by his arms. 

“Please...” he managed to whimper. “Please, stop hurting me.”

The men all laughed. 

“Please,” one mocked, cuffing Malcolm on the side of his head. “Please, stop hurting me.” Another slap left his ears ringing. “We ain’t started to hurt you, yet, pretty boy.” 

Malcolm realized he was not going to survive the night. 

He was going to die. 

Here, on a dock, his body likely dumped in the river. 

_I deserve to die,_ Malcolm thought as a cold breeze snaked under the collar of his shirt and slithered its way down his back. _I deserve to die at these mens hands. If I had called the police sooner..._

The Girl in the Box would have been found. 

She’d have been saved. 

Yeah, he was gonna die like she did. 

Alone. 

Without justice. 

_As it should be._

The man holding him released him. Malcolm’s knees buckled, and he crumbled to the ground without a sound. The man who chimed his bells kicked him onto his back and planted his boot against his throat. 

Malcolm sputtered as his airway was blocked off. He clawed and slapped at the man’s leg, trying to dislodge his foot so he could draw a full breath, to no avail. 

A second later, it was gone, and he could breathe again. 

How, he didn’t know. 

And he didn’t rightly care. 

Malcolm rolled onto his side, coughing and choking, and trying his best to not vomit. 

Distantly, he recognized the sound of fists meeting flesh. 

A frown furrowed his brow as he tried to puzzle out what was going on. 

Had Gil found him? 

No, he’d have announced himself as NYPD.

He also wouldn’t have gotten into a fistfight with four armed men. 

Malcolm went to turn his head but a blinding pain stopped him. Nausea rolled greasily through his belly. His breath wheezed out from between his clenched teeth. 

Grunts were accompanied by thuds. 

Then?

Silence. 

A shadow loomed over him. Fear it was one of the men who attacked him shot a spasm through his hands that rattled all the way up to his elbows. 

He could do nothing to defend himself, though. 

Not injured as he was. 

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Kill me.” 

It’s what he deserved. 

“We wouldn’t be good heroes if we went around killing those we save.” A gloved hand gently brushed his hair from his face. “Now, would we?”

 _A girl_ , he realized with some surprise. It was a girl crouched over him. One with a voice like velvet, soft and warm. A siren’s voice, he decided. The kind that lured many seafaring men to their deaths. 

Malcolm stared up at her with his good eye. 

That first look cut him deeper than any razor blade could. 

Dark hair formed a halo about a face like honeyed cream. Her nose was small, and straight, her lips wide and full. 

Her eyes, though, were what held his attention. They were green. Not hazel green, not emerald, not green flecked with hints of gold or brown or blue. 

Just a pure and hypnotic shade of green. 

Against the backdrop of the black domino concealing a good majority of her upper face from view, they glowed with a mystical force. As if they were trying to suck him into a deep, dark web. Just like the sirens who lured so many to their deaths. 

“Circe.” 

Malcolm swallowed a groan as he realized he spoke that name out loud. Embarrassed heat filled his cheeks. He silently prayed she hadn’t heard him. 

Not that he had any hope whatsoever of luck or the fates, if they existed, being on his side.

“What?” Those springy curls brushed his face as she leaned close to hear him. “What did you say?”

“I, uh, called you Circe.” 

“Circe was the name of the enchantress who lured Odysseus and his men to her home with her singing.” Her lips curved into a smile full of warm amusement. “I’m not quite that talented a singer nor do I know how to turn my enemy into swine.” 

Despite the pain throbbing through him in one continuous wave, Malcolm found himself intrigued. “You’ve read _The Odyssey_?” 

“And _The Iliad_.” 

There was a soft sigh and then another voice, male this time said, “She’s totally into books with no pictures.” 

“Just because you lack an imagination, bird boy,” she retorted with a tiny sniff, “doesn’t mean the rest of us do.” 

“I have quite a vivid imagination thank you, Nix.” 

“Nix?” Malcolm kept his gaze on her. His dark angel. Come to save him from the demons. “That’s your name?”

“It’s short for Fenix.” She carefully lifted his aching head and placed something soft beneath it. A jacket, he assumed. Either way, it felt better to his aching head than the cold, hard ground. “And the one fluttering around us is Robin.”

Fenix and Robin. 

Where had he heard those names before? 

Before Malcolm could ask, sirens sounded. 

“Time to go, Nix.”

“I don’t want to leave him alone.” 

Malcolm didn’t want her to leave him, either. Robin insisted, however.

“NYPD and EMS will be here in less than a minute.” 

“I know they will be here in less than a minute.” Her right hand covered Malcolm’s. “I still don’t want to leave him here alone.” 

“Nix.” Robin entered Malcolm’s line of vision. He, too, wore a half-mask that concealed the majority of his upper face from view. Only his was a deep forest green instead of black. Where her eyes were a vivid shade of green, his were a shade of blue deeper than Malcolm’s own. “You know the rules.” 

“Robin.”

“We have to go.” A gloved hand rest on her shoulder. “C’mon.” 

Fenix sighed as she rose reluctantly to her feet. “I don’t like this.” 

Malcolm didn’t, either. 

“I know you don’t.” Robin sent her a teasing grin. “You won’t be the one you-know-who will yell at, though.” 

Fenix harrumphed. “Like you don’t yell back at him.” 

“True.”

They turned then to leave. Malcolm went to beg them to stay but the lights from the approaching vehicles hit his eyes, blinding him.

When he could see again, they were gone, leaving Malcolm wondering if they had been real. 

Or just another of his many hallucinations. 


	2. Chapter 2

When the broadcast came over the radio about there being an assault in progress somewhere near his location, Gil sighed, but remained where he was. As much as he wanted to go and help the person being assaulted, he couldn’t risk blowing his cover. 

Not when they were close to finally catching the crew importing the latest round of assault weapons hitting the streets of New York City, Trenton, Gotham, and Blüdhaven. 

Each city had seen an increase in gun violence within the last month. That wouldn’t have attracted much attention on its own. Gun violence tended to fluctuate. As did robberies, assaults, and other crimes. 

Robbery and personal larceny always spiked near Christmas. Gil knew from his years as a beat cop that criminals struck more during the holiday season because of opportunity. More people out shopping made it easier for criminals to blend in. 

This spike in violence was different, though. The type of guns making it onto the streets were not the average grade weapons they typically saw. No, these weapons were the kind the military used. 

Getting them and the ones peddling them off the streets was critical to all involved. For once, the cities pulled together, and created a task force to try and catch those ferrying the weapons in. A tip to the GCPD last week told them about a shipment arriving here at New York Harbor sometime during the week. 

Gil had been staked out here for three nights now, watching and waiting for whoever to unload the ship the guns were stored on. He thought tonight would be the night when things would finally happen. Increased activity onboard one of the ships about an hour ago indicated something about to go down. He was about to grab the radio to tell the rest of the task force to get ready when it burst to life, clarifying the earlier broadcast. 

“ _All units, the victim of the assault down at the docks is a boy in his late teens_.”

Warning bells went off inside Gil’s head. He instantly ordered himself to calm down. It wasn’t Malcolm they were talking about. 

The kid was at home. 

Hopefully, sleeping for a change. 

Not that Gil believed he was. Malcolm tended to avoid sleep as often as he could. Largely because of the memories that assaulted the kid any time he shut his eyes for more than a second.

His sleep issues started right after he made the phone call that saw his father arrested and charged with the murder of at least twenty-three victims. 

That was also about the time he started talking about the Girl in the Box. 

Gil, as well as Malcolm’s mother, Jessica, and the trio of therapists she drug the boy too, all believed the Girl in the Box was a byproduct of his father, a man the media nicknamed, _The Surgeon_ , and what he did to Malcolm. 

Not that any of them knew what precisely Martin Whitly had done to his son because the kid couldn’t — or _wouldn’t_ was more like it — tell them. 

He had his suspicions, though. 

Each one made him angry enough to travel to Claremont Psychiatric Hospital to confront Doctor Whitly and order him to stay away from his son or else. 

Not that the man would. 

No, Doctor Whitly saw Malcolm as an extension of himself. _A mirror image._

“ _We’re the same_ ,” he told the boy as uniformed officers walked him out of the house. “ _Never forget that, my boy, we’re the same._ ” 

They weren’t though. 

Not at all. 

Malcolm was nothing like that asshole. 

He never would be if he had any say about it. 

Gil’s attention was pulled from his dark musings as a half-dozen squad and unmarked cars screamed past the dirty window. Doubt mixed with the five cups of stale coffee he had drank while waiting. His spine tingled with unease. 

It couldn’t be Malcolm. 

The kid was home. 

In bed. 

Where he belonged. 

Something, however, urged him to go see for himself. 

He was about to do just that when someone rapped on the door. Gil placed one hand on his gun as he moved to answer it. 

“Yeah?” he asked as he pulled the door open a crack. “What is it?” 

“You, Arroyo?” 

Gil didn’t recognize the gruff voice that came out of the darkness. The only reason he didn’t yank the door open and put his gun in the man’s face was the gold badge hanging around his neck. _GCPD_ , he realized as he opened the door and stared at the large man. _Can only mean Jim sent him._

Why he sent him had Gil’s insides twisting into knots. He tamped down his nerves as he answered the man’s earlier question. 

“I’m Arroyo.”

“You better come with me.” 

A cold chill raced down Gil’s spine. 

“The boy assaulted...” he paused to wet his suddenly dry lips. “Is he...?” 

“Alive.” The man turned to lumber over to the vehicle he left running. “Asking for you.” 

That was the only confirmation Gil needed to know it was Malcolm. What the kid was doing down there at the docks at that time of night, he didn’t know. All that mattered was he was there, badly injured, and asking for him. 

“Let’s go,” he said as he pulled the door shut behind him. 

...

Robin and Fenix watched from atop one of the buildings as cop cars and emergency vehicles swarmed the docks. 

“There’s Bullock.” Fenix aimed a finger at the brown unmarked car that pulled up behind two others. “He brought Detective Arroyo with him.”

“There, he’s being taken care of.” Robin sent her an easy grin. “You can chillax now.”

“No.” A shake of the head was followed by a soft sigh. “No, I can’t.” 

“You can’t?” A frown furrowed Robin’s brow. “Why not?” 

“You didn’t see how broken he is.” Fenix lifted troubled eyes to his. “He’s hanging on by a wire, Robin.“

Robin breathed out a sigh as he turned to watch them load the boy — _Malcolm_ , she said his name was earlier — into the waiting ambulance. A dark-haired man in plains clothes hopped in the back with him. _At least he’s not going to the hospital alone_ , he thought, cape whipping around him. _Someone will be there with him until his folks get there._

Well, his mother, anyway, he corrected with a grimace. 

Malcolm’s father was locked away in a psychiatric hospital for having murdered a lot of people. 

Batman had them read about _The Surgeon_ as part of their Robin and Fenix homework. 

Fenix built a profile from the information they were given, citing Doctor Whitly as a malignant narcissist with a god-complex who’d give The Joker a run for his money. 

She also insisted that he was grooming his son to follow in his footsteps. 

“ _He repeatedly calls them the same in statements given by eyewitnesses who were there the night Whitly was arrested_ ,” she said, her tone like tempered steel. “ _Addresses him as ‘my boy’ instead of as Malcolm. Hints to his involvement in one of his murders. I believe he was grooming his son to become a killer like him_.”

Robin didn’t doubt her for a minute. 

Same as he didn’t doubt what she saw in Malcolm’s eyes. 

Seven years of friendship taught him to trust her instincts. 

Fenix had an unerring knack for reading people. It was a skill Batman encouraged she hone because of how beneficial such an ability would be in their line of work. If she thought Malcolm Whitly was hanging on by a wire? He likely was. There was just one thing.

“Batman said you’re not allowed to adopt any more strays,” he lightly kidded. “Not after Jason.” 

“He adopted Jason.” 

“After you bullied and badgered him about it.”

“I bullied and badgered him about _you_ ,” she clarified as the ambulance with Malcolm in it started driving away. “Not Jason.” 

“You didn’t talk to him for a week until he agreed to bring Jason home from the orphanage.” 

“It was two weeks and I had laryngitis for one of them.” 

“Quietest two weeks of my life.” 

That earned him one of her patented Fenix scowls. 

“I’d be thrilled if you were quiet for five minutes right now.”

“You’d be bored then.”

“I’ll risk it.” She rose to her feet. “I’m going to follow the ambulance. I want to make sure...”

“He has a family to take care of him, Nix.” 

Not that Malcolm Whitly having a family would prevent her from getting involved. Seven years as her best friend also taught him that if she thought someone needed a friend? 

She’d be their friend. 

_And the kid does look like he could use a friend_ , he admitted silently. 

“I know he has a family.” Frustration sizzled in every word. “I just...” Fenix blew out a breath that steamed in the cold air. “I think he’s in crisis, Robin.“

“Suicidal?” Robin flinched as he spoke that word out loud. It was a harsh word. One neither of them used willy-nilly. “You think he might be suicidal?”

“Yes.” Her sigh fogged the air between them. “Yes, I think he’s definitely suicidal.”

 _That_ , Robin decided, running a hand through his hair, _isn’t good_. It also raised another, alarming, possibility.

“Do you think Malcolm came here tonight looking for trouble?” 

“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I think he came here looking for the detective and had trouble end up finding him.”

That was an understatement to Robin’s way of thinking. 

“Nico and his steroid buddies almost beat him to death.” 

“I think...” Her lower lip trembled. “I think he wanted them to.”

“What?” Robin’s eyes popped wide. “You think he wanted them to kill him?”

“I think Malcolm Whitly believes he deserves to die for what his father did to his victims.”

 _I can’t ask her to let go of this_ , Robin realized as a stiff breeze snapped his cape around their legs. _Not if the guy has gone so far down the rabbit hole that he believes he deserves death for what his dad did._

“Promise me one thing.” He set a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be careful.”

“Hey.” She tried to flash him a cheeky grin but it ended up more a pained grimace. “It’s me, remember?”

“Yeah, kinda my point.” Fenix’s eyes promised retribution. He decided to neetle her just a bit more. Payback for her getting him extra Robin homework. “I mean, I won’t be there to help when you get in trouble.”

She rolled her eyes; harrumphed. 

“Whatever you say, feather for brains.”

Before he could reply, a familiar growl sounded from the darkness, startling them both. 

“Robin. Fenix. It’s time to go.”

Robin turned and watched as that large silhouette glided across the rooftop towards them. It still amazed him at how a man as large as Batman could move so... _effortlessly_ . As if he was one with the shadows. _Technically, he is_ , he realized as Batman stopped in front of them.

“Is the operation blown?” 

“No.” Batman's voice was low, dark, and somehow warm and menacing at the same time. It was little wonder he inspired fear in those he brought to justice. “While you and Fenix helped save the Whitly boy, Gordon and I intercepted the arms shipment.” 

“I’m sorry.” Fenix turned to face Batman. “I know we shouldn’t have left our post. You needed us to keep watch on those men. When I saw what was about to happen to Malcolm, though, I couldn’t stand down.” 

“You did exactly what I expected you to do.” 

“We did?” Fenix’s eyes popped wide. “But...” A frown formed between her eyes. “You said we were not to leave our posts for any reason.” 

“I also expect you to use your own judgment and to choose where and when my orders should be ignored.” He indicated the men being loaded into waiting squad cars. “This was one of those times where your judgement was correct and your actions saved someone from a much worse fate.”

Praise tended to come infrequently from him. Not because Batman believed them unworthy of it. 

Far from it, in fact. 

No, he tended to reserve praise for when he felt it was most warranted and deserved. 

_This being one of those times_ , Robin realized, warmth spreading through him at their unexpected windfall.

“You’re not angry then that we left our post?” 

“No.” A gloved hand settled on Fenix’s shoulder. “And I will not stop you if you wish to go to the hospital and check on the boy.” Batman rarely smiled but there was a slight softening to his lips and a twinkle to his eye. “However, I suggest you do so as yourself and not as Fenix.“ 

“What?” Robin teased. “You don’t want her sneaking into the hospital like you would?” 

“I do not.” Batman‘s sigh formed a cloud. “Hospital personnel here might object to a masked vigilante sneaking in to see an assault victim.” 

“That’s ‘cause they’re not as comfortable with their heroes running around as they are in Gotham.” 

“Wouldn’t exactly say they’re always comfortable with us running around in Gotham, bird boy.” 

Robin sent Fenix a teasing grin. 

“They are when the Joker’s running amuck.” 

“Well, yeah,” she huffed. “It’s the Joker.”

“Let’s go,” Batman said, turning. “You have school in the morning.”

Robin groaned. “Aw, man, why do we gotta go to school?”

“You know the rules,” Fenix told him as she walked after Batman. “Crimefighting doesn’t interfere with school.”

“You’ve already graduated from high school,” he grumbled as he followed her. “Why you still go is beyond me.”

“I go ‘cause I want to go.”

“You need your head examined, Nix.” Robin climbed into the Batplane and got settled in his seat. “‘Cause if I graduated high school early like you did? No way would I keep going.” 

“You’d be going to college if you graduated early,” came from the man in the pilot seat. “And working part-time like Fenix does.”

Robin sighed as he strapped himself in. “Nix,” he said as Batman headed for Gotham. “Could you quit making the rest of us look bad?”

“Look who raised us, feather for brains.”

“Yeah, that’s my point.” He grinned as Batman sighed. “What? She’s totes like you.”

“You could try and be more like her.”

Robin scoffed at that. Much as he loved Nix? He didn’t want to spend his days and nights with his head crammed in a book.

“I like having a social life, thank you.” 

Fenix harrumphed. 

“I have a social life.” 

“No, you have books.”

Fenix sniffed as she folded her arms across her chest. 

“Do me a favor, buzzard breath.” 

“Sure, what?” 

Though he had a pretty good idea what she’d ask for. 

“Be quiet the rest of the way home.” 

He could have continued teasing her, as he always did, but some of her control had slipped, and he saw fatigue breaking through to haunt her face. The stress of the approaching holidays, and her concern for the Whitly kid were taking a toll. 

He slipped a hand through her hair to rub the back of her neck.

“Lay your head on my shoulder,” he coaxed gently. “I’ll wake you when we get to the Cave.” 

She did as he suggested without any of her usual guff, confirming his suspicion she had reached the end of her tether. 

Not that she’d admit it if he called her on it. 

_Totes like him._

Robin curled his arm around her and rest his cheek against her crown with a small sigh. 

He missed the faint smile that curved the lips of the man piloting the plane. 

Not that he’d believe it had he seen it.

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Gil paced restlessly. It was the only thing he could do since the ER doctor and nurses wouldn’t allow him back there as they worked on the kid. He tried to push past when Malcolm called for him but the doctor kept him back with a hand on his chest. 

“He’ll be fine,” the man assured him before he disappeared into the examination room they wheeled Malcolm into. 

God, he hated that word. Especially when it was used in relation to Malcolm. _Fine_ was never _fine_ with him. The kid was a neurotic and emotional mess most days. A ball of chaotic energy the rest. The few hours of normal Malcolm tended to manage happened with about as much frequency as blizzards in San Francisco. 

“Doctor Walsh will update you soon as he’s assessed how badly your son is injured.” 

It was on the tip of Gil’s tongue to tell the nurse Malcolm wasn’t his son. He refrained, however. He was the only adult present until Jessica got there. 

“He’s on a bunch of medications,” he said instead. “I have a card in my pocket of what ones and the dosages.” 

“Those will help us in preventing any drug interactions.”

Gil fished the card from his wallet and handed it to her. 

“He won’t want to be sedated. It will agitate him.” 

An understatement.

Tranquilizers always sent Malcolm into a blind panic.

“Doctor Walsh may have no choice but to give him something to calm him down.”

Gil stood firm. “Do not sedate him without me or his mother present. Am I making myself clear?” 

“Yes, Detective, you have made your opinion more than clear,” the nurse — _Erin Corbin_ , her name tag read — said with a gentle smile. “Now, wait here.”

As if he had any other choice.

Gil spun around and paced back to the other end of the waiting room since he could not be back there as they worked on tending to the kid’s injuries. 

_What was Malcolm even doing there at the docks_? That question had hounded him since the man — Detective Harvey Bullock he learned while they drove to the scene — knocked on the door of the shipping warehouse and told him he needed to go with him. 

Why was the kid at the docks and not asleep in his bed as he should have been? He tried to ask Malcolm in the ambulance but he refused to answer. 

It was his own fault, he realized as the hospital doors burst open and paramedics wheeled an elderly man in. He told Malcolm where he’d be. That he wouldn’t be reachable those hours but he could call Jackie if he needed to talk. 

Why hadn’t he done that? 

Frustration sizzled through Gil as he continued his restless pacing. 

Why hadn’t he asked her to pick him up? To bring him back to their place? Why take a cab all the way to the docks? 

Those questions plagued him as he turned to head back in the opposite direction. 

“Gil!” Jackie rushed over to him, dark eyes wide with shock, face pale, and lower lip quivering. “Is he...” 

She didn’t need to finish that question. He knew what she asked. Gil pulled her into a tight hug, as much to comfort her, as himself. 

“He’s okay.” He rest his cheek against her crown and let out a small sigh. “Doctors are seeing him now.” 

“What was he doing at the docks?” Jackie leaned back to look at him. “Did he tell you?” 

“There was no time really for me to question him about it.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie. There hadn’t been an abundance of time between the kid being loaded into the ambulance and the ride here for him to interrogate him about why he was down there at the docks. 

“God, Gil, he could have been killed.” Jackie dropped her head back against his chest with a small sniffle that hurt worse than a fist to his gut. “We could have lost him tonight and had no idea what happened.”

“Luckily, that didn’t happen.” 

How Malcolm hadn’t ended up killed remained a mystery to Gil. There hadn’t been a lot of time for him to process the scene but he remembered four big men with hands and feet zip-tied on the ground. 

“How, though?” 

Gil had his suspicions about how exactly Malcolm avoided being killed. He just couldn’t prove anything. He supposed he could ask Jim about it. However, that entailed them having a conversation Gil wasn’t sure he was ready to have.

One that included words like _Batman_ and _Robin_.

“He’s still with us is what matters,” he told her finally. “He’s gonna be okay.” 

“Did you call Jessica?” 

“Right after I called you.” 

It had not been the hardest phone call he had to make. No, that belonged to when Malcolm was fourteen and woke him in the middle of the night to beg him to come get him from the private school he had been sent too. 

Informing Jessica her son had been strung up by his wrists and whipped with belts by a group of his peers had been the hardest thing he had to do. Calling and telling her about Malcolm getting assaulted by four assholes at the docks in the middle of the night was certainly up there, though. 

“Don’t advise telling her you called me before you called her.” Jackie angled her head to look at him, a small smile curving her lips. “She’s likely to explode if she knows you called me before her.”

“I have no plans on telling her I called you, first.” 

Not that he was sorry he had called Jackie before Jessica. He needed to find his balance, get a hold over the fear and rage threatening to tear him in two. She was his tether. The one who put him back together when he broke into a thousand pieces. 

“Wise man.” Her fingers glided up and down his back in one continuous, soothing motion. “Hopefully, the doctors will come out and tell us how he is before she gets here.”

“I sent a uniform to pick her up.” 

“Probably for the best.” Her arms banded around his waist. “Don’t want her harassing her driver and potentially causing an accident.” 

“I figured I was cutting out her getting pulled over for speeding.” 

“Sparing the officer from an ensuing scene.”

“Right.”

Heels clicking on the tile alerted them to the arrival of the woman they were discussing. Gil looked up to see Jessica, immaculately attired despite it being nearly four in the morning, coming towards them. If he didn’t know Malcolm was in the back he’d have thought she was simply there to see a sick friend.

“Gil.” She blinked back the bit of moisture that gathered in her eyes. The woman wouldn’t cry, though. No, Jessica Whitly was a rock. She’d stay strong until the crisis was over. Then she’d fall to pieces. “What happened?” 

Gil wished he completely understood that himself. Saying to Jessica Whitly, _I don’t know what happened,_ wasn’t an option. The best he could do was be honest. _Or as honest as I can be_ , he amended as Jackie stepped back. 

“Malcolm got attacked by four assailants a couple of hours ago.” 

“Attacked?” Fear and dismay warred with each other on her otherwise coolly composed face. “What was he doing out of his room?” 

“He apparently took a cab down to New York Harbor.” 

What color was in Jessica’s face washed away. 

“What was he doing at New York Harbor at two o’clock in the morning?” 

“I don’t know.” Only the kid could tell them that and he was in no position to do so. “We’ll have to ask him once we can see him.” 

“You haven’t seen him?” 

“No.” Gil shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me go back with him and they haven’t come out yet to appraise us of his condition.” 

“Well.” Jessica spun on one spiky heel and stalked towards the admittance desk. “They will damn sure let me back there to see him.” 

Gil didn’t doubt that for a minute. 

Nor did he pity the doctor who’d be the focus of her wrath if they refused. 

...

The dark things living inside the white noise in his head assaulted Malcolm the second the sedative the doctor ordered took effect. They always lurked at the fringes of his mind, waiting to taunt him with their plethora of secrets, whisper their ugly, hateful things at him, and claw at him with fingers tipped with razor-sharp nails. 

Always tearing at what little sanity he had. 

Always ripping apart his fractured mind. 

Always pulling him to where they wanted him to go.

Not that they ever took him anywhere but to the same place over and over and over again. 

A place Malcolm had not physically been back too since the night his father was arrested. 

The “hobby room” as his mother called it. 

A room which contained both wonderful memories and terrible ones. 

Flashes of things, fragments of moments, pieces he didn’t understand whizzed by at a nauseating pace. 

Malcolm tried to grab hold of the images and fit them together, like the puzzles he and his father did during his school breaks, but they eluded him. 

As they always did. 

Malcolm tried to shake off the sedative before it plummeted him further down into the deep, dark abyss the shadow creatures lived. 

His efforts proved futile. 

Like usual.

His fear was their elixir. They greedily partook of it as he begged and pleaded for them to release him. 

Not that they would. 

They bound him in ropes fashioned from his shredded soul. The harder he struggled, the more they laughed, and the tighter those restraints became. Helpless as a newborn lamb, Malcolm watched as his younger self walked down that dark corridor.

Heading for _that_ room. 

The one where the trunk sat, waiting.

Always waiting.

He turned his head away, resisted. He didn't want to go in there. To open that box. To see the body of the woman his mother, father, and everyone else kept telling him didn't exist.

A whimper escaped him as the shadow creatures taunted him, dared him to look. 

He refused. 

Tears leaked from his eyes as they bit and slapped and clawed to get him to turn his head back.

Still, he refused. 

Finally, they grasped his head and forced him to watch as his ten-year-old self stood in the doorway, staring at the trunk that rattled back and forth, soft cries coming from within. 

Bands formed around Malcolm’s chest, around his head.

Tightening, tightening.

Until he could barely breathe. 

Again he struggled against his bindings but found them no less breakable than he before. 

Resigned, defeated, alone with his frustration and rage, Malcolm watched as his younger self knelt in front of the trunk, reached for the lid.

Pushed it up.

“ _No_!” 

He shot upwards, hand reaching out to the figures he could still see, his scream echoing in his ears. He’d have bolted from the bed but rough hands kept him immobile. 

“Malcolm!” He heard his mother through the roaring filling his ears. “You’re all right! You’re safe!” 

“No,” he panted. “No, no, no...” 

He was never truly safe. 

The shadow creatures were always there to taunt him, torment him. 

Lead him back to that room. 

That trunk. 

The girl locked inside for reasons he couldn’t understand and couldn’t ask his father about.

“Kid.” Gil’s hands gripped his shoulders, tight enough to keep him still but gentle enough to not leave behind bruises. “Relax. You need to relax.” 

“Can’t.” Malcolm rolled his head on the pillow. Strained against his grip. Gasped for desperately needed air. “Can’t.” 

He couldn’t ever let his guard down. It’d be disastrous if he did. People could get hurt if he didn’t keep some measure of control. 

“No!” His mother’s sharp voice broke through the static. “Do not give him another sedative! He doesn’t like being sedated.” 

The last thing Malcolm wanted was being locked inside his mind. Something his doctor didn’t seem to understand despite his mother’s words. 

“Mrs. Whitly, your son is agitated and going to cause himself further harm unless we sedate him.” 

“You sedate him and I will have your medical license.” 

“Ma’am...”

“Don’t you _ma’am_ me,” his mother bit out. “The last sedative you gave him caused this attack!” 

“We need to—”

“Out.” 

If not for the fact he couldn’t draw a decent breath, and feared he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, Malcolm might have grinned. His mother definitely learned the art of commanding obedience from his grandmother. Her words held the same echoes of authority and undertones of compulsion as Grans did. He could almost picture the dismayed, frustrated look on his doctor’s face.

Not that the man seemed inclined to concede defeat.

“If we don’t calm Malcolm down now he could have a stroke.” 

“Risk it,” Malcolm managed around the fingers cinched around his throat. “No sedatives.” 

He couldn’t take being locked inside his mind.

Not again. 

He wasn’t strong enough to withstand another showdown with the shadow creatures. 

With his father. 

The loudest and persistent voice of all. 

“Sh, kid,” Gil soothed. “We won’t let them sedate you again.” Malcolm managed to focus on his face. Saw the exhaustion and worry mingling with firm resolve. “You gotta calm down, though. Can you do that for me?” 

Malcolm wasn’t sure he could do anything at that moment. Not while his heart beat a hard staccato against his ribcage. Sweat soaked through his hospital gown and stuck his hair to his face and neck. He alternated between being hot and cold. His chest and head throbbed in one continuous ball of pain that left him wanting to throw up. 

“It’s okay, darling.” His mother’s cool hand cupped his cheek. Brought some solace and comfort. “You’re okay. The doctor is gone. He won’t be giving you any more sedatives.” 

Malcolm forced himself to focus on her face. Worry had carved lines around her mouth and the corner of her eyes. Concern and other things he couldn’t identify darkened the depths of her eyes. Guilt mixed with the miasma boiling in his belly. He wanted to apologize for causing her so much heartache but feared if he opened his mouth he’d spew everything in his stomach all over her. 

His mother said something but Malcolm didn’t hear her. His attention was caught by a man singing out in the hall. His brow furrowed as he listened, oddly soothed by his warm, rich baritone. 

“ _Here comes the sun_...” were the only words he could make out. “ _Here comes the sun...”_

Malcolm found the bands easing as he continued to listen. The fingers around his throat slid away and he found he could draw his first decent breath. Why exactly that was, he didn’t know. Nothing ever worked to ease his attacks. 

This, though, had. 

Either the song or the man singing it had some special calming power.

Malcolm made a mental note to figure out which once he was out of the hospital. 

For now, he let the words wash over him, too exhausted, and hurt to keep fighting. 


	4. Chapter 4

Jessica Whitly’s past association with Bruce gave Raya the perfect excuse to visit Malcolm in the hospital. 

At least, it gave her a reason she figured wouldn’t raise eyebrows as much as her backup plan of sneaking into the hospital late at night dressed in her body armor would. 

Which was a bad plan, she agreed. 

The only hiccup to her showing up at the hospital was Malcolm. He’d expect Fenix. Plain ole Raya Kean? Not so much. 

Why would he anticipate her visiting him in the hospital? They had no connection outside his mother. Granted, Jessica briefly dated Bruce before meeting his father, and she served with him on a number of committees and boards, but that didn’t exactly give him reason to think she’d visit him. 

She couldn’t risk sneaking into the hospital as Fenix, though. While New York might tolerate their own group of Avengers lending a hand to the city, they would not look favorably on her traipsing through one of their hospitals to visit an assault victim. 

_Especially given who the mother of said patient is._

Jessica Whitly was a formidable woman. As connected socially as Bruce. Raya had absolutely no desire to tangle with her. Not without Bruce there to help smooth things over. That was also why she sat downstairs, pretending she was reading a magazine, and waiting for her cousin, Barbara, to let her know the coast was clear.

“Has Mrs. Whitly left with Detective Arroyo?”

“ _Just now_ ,” her cousin Barbara replied in her ear. “ _I watched them leave Malcolm’s hospital room five seconds before you asked_.”

“Thanks, Barb.” Raya closed the magazine and set it back on the table between the chairs. “I appreciate the help.” 

“ _Just be careful,”_ Barb said. _“_ _Dad nor Bruce will be happy if you get into trouble_.” 

“What makes you think I’ll get into trouble?” 

“ _It’s you.”_

Raya scoffed softly. “You have me confused with Dick.” 

“ _I’m surprised he’s not there with you, honestly_.” 

“He had finals today in Chemistry and Calculus.” Raya grabbed her purse and the gift bag she bought special before making her way to the elevator. “He’s going to come into the city tonight if the weather holds.”

“ _How did you_ _get_ _Bruce to agree to you staying alone in the city?_ ” 

“I have to wear a tracking device, use the car service he hired, and text him hourly updates on my whereabouts.”

“ _A tracking device_?” Surprise coated her cousin’s voice. “ _Are you kidding me_?”

“Afraid not.” 

“ _That’s a whole new level of paranoia.”_ A pause. _“Even for him_.”

“Dick and I have a bet.”

“ _Oh? On what_?”

“Bruce.” Raya hit the button to call the elevator. “If he’s going to brood down in his cave while watching my movements on the screen or carry a GPS tracker around with him all day.” 

“ _Brooding down in the cave sounds like him_.” 

“That’s what I told Dick.”

The elevator dinged and Detective Arroyo and Mrs. Whitly stepped off. Raya inwardly cursed and ducked her head to keep them from seeing her. Not that either one seemed to pay attention to the people around them. They walked off in the opposite direction. _Heading for the cafeteria_ , she decided, breathing a sigh of relief.

“ _Didn’t Dad have any requirements for your staying in the city_?”

“Yes, he asked Hoyt Brannigan to check on me.”

“ _He asked the police commissioner of the NYPD to check on you_?”

“Yes, he did.”

“ _Why didn’t he just have you meet Detective Arroyo at the hospital_?”

“I told him I didn’t want the detective seeing the special gift I brought for Malcolm.” She entered the elevator and selected the floor Malcolm’s room was on. “I got enough teasing as it was from Dick about it.” 

“ _You brought Malcolm a special gift? What is it?_ ” 

“Just a book.” 

“ _A book_?” Barbara drawled. “ _Wouldn’t be The Odyssey, would it_?” 

“How’d you know?” 

“ _Because there’s five books you’d be most likely to share with someone like Malcolm Whitly_.” 

Her cousin knowing what books she’d share with Malcolm wasn’t that much of a surprise. Her and Barbara were closer than most cousins. Shared many secrets. _Especially our lives as two of Gotham’s guardians_.

”He’s already read _Three Musketeers, Count of Monte Cristo_ , and _Sherlock Holmes_ , and _The_ _Iliad_ was required this year in his English class.”

“ _How do you know it was required in one of his classes_?” 

“Christopher Black goes to Malcolm’s school.” Raya exited the elevator and started making her way towards his room. _221B_. Barbara confirmed it earlier when she hacked into the hospital’s mainframe. “He’s in three of his classes.” 

“ _Judge Black sent Ethan to Malcolm’s boarding school_?”

“Mhm.” 

“ _Why_?” 

“Didn’t want his son falling in with a bad crowd.” 

Bitterness left a foul taste in her mouth. Why shouldn’t she be resentful, though? Christopher had been a friend. Someone she allowed close. That she trusted.

“ _You mean he didn’t want his son being friends with you_.” 

Just because she reconciled it didn’t mean the words didn’t still hurt.

“No, he didn’t want us being friends.” Raya spotted Malcolm’s room number and started toward it. Nerves attacked as soon as she got three paces from the door. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea...”

“ _Why_?” 

“He doesn’t know me.” 

“ _You don’t know him._ ” 

Leave it to her cousin to use stone cold logic as a weapon against her. 

“He has massive trust issues.” 

“ _So do you_.” 

Zing! 

Another point to the former Batgirl. 

“I’m not the one in the hospital after being assaulted by four of my father’s goon squad.” 

The bruises darkening his face throbbed on her own. 

Seeing Nico and his buddies pummel Malcolm enraged her. Beneath the fury, though, had lurked a primal fear. 

Nico and the rest of his cronies were all repeat sex offenders. Nico, especially, had a liking for boys about Malcolm’s age. He was a known sexual sadist. Had assaulted ten other boys in the last year. _That we know of_. The likelihood of Nico and his crew sexually brutalizing Malcolm had been dangerously high. 

Thankfully, Dick stopped them before they could. 

“ _You’re the one who said he’s in crisis_.”

Raya grimaced.

Another point for Barbara. 

Drat it all.

“Dick didn’t have to tell you about that...”

“ _Because it lends proof to his claim about you having a crush on Malcolm Whitly_?”

“Mhm.”

“ _Does it matter if you have a crush on Malcolm_?”

“Yes— no... I don’t know.” Frustrated, Raya turned to pace to a small waiting area nearby. “It’s not a crush. At least, I don’t think it is.” 

“ _You’re allowed to have crushes, Raya,_ ” Barbara said gently. “ _It’s normal and healthy to have crushes_.” 

“I know it is.” Tears pricked her lashes. “It’s just not the right time for it.” 

It never was the right time. Hadn’t Bruce’s many failed relationships taught her that?

“ _Why not_?” 

“Because I think my father is going to try and kill Malcolm on December 16th.”

“ _But that’s_...” 

“The night he killed my mother.” Raya ignored the swirl of grief that surfaced. “Yes.” 

“ _Why do you think Berkeley’s going to try and kill Malcolm on the anniversary of Aunt Ellen’s death? What’s his motive_?” 

“I don’t know.” She turned to look at the battered and bruised boy resting quietly in his hospital bed. All he was doing was resting. Even from her she could see the tremor that wracked his one hand. _Psychogenic_ , she deduced. Byproduct of trauma and stress. “I’m going to find out, though.”

_And I’m going to stop it._

Even if it meant sacrificing her life to do it.

…

“What were you thinking, kid? You could have gotten yourself killed.” 

Malcolm hunched his shoulders and stared into his half-empty cup of jello. He really didn’t want to get into why he was down at the docks. 

It seemed stupid now that he had a chance to look back. 

Getting upset because his girlfriend went to a party without him. He didn’t even like going to parties. Especially the ones Jennifer liked going too.

“I’m sorry.” He scooped up the last of the jello. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

“You could have called Jackie.” Gil cupped the back of his neck. “Asked her to come pick you up.”

He _should_ have called Jackie. Gil was absolutely right. If he had, he wouldn’t be sitting in a hospital bed with ribs that bellowed each time he moved or a head that throbbed like a bad tooth. 

“You’re right, I should have called Jackie.” Malcolm lifted watery eyes to Gil’s. “I didn’t want to bother her, though.” 

“Kid, you’re never a bother to her or me.” Those fingers on the back of his neck lightly squeezed. “But you put yourself in an extraordinary amount of danger last night. Those men could have killed you.” A faint smile appeared through Gil’s goatee. “And that would have bothered Jackie and myself a lot more than you calling and asking to get picked up because you couldn’t sleep.” Another squeeze. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

“Before I forget.” Gil reached behind him and brought forward a gift-bag he set in Malcolm’s lap. “This was left for you at the desk this morning.” 

“For me?” A frown pulled at Malcolm’s brow as he stared at the brightly colored bag with a mixture of confusion and uncertainty. “Are you sure this is for me?”

“Nurse Corbin said the girl who delivered it was quite adamant that it was for you.” 

“A girl?” Suspicion and doubt curled in Malcolm’s belly. He peeked up at Gil through the strands of hair in his face. “A girl left this for me?” 

“Yes.” Amusement shimmered in Gil’s eyes, on his face. “A girl left a gift for you.”

Malcolm chewed his lower lip as he stared again at the gift-bag. He reached for it but then stopped himself, unsure if he should look inside or not. 

“I don’t know any girl who’d buy me a gift.”

Outside of Jackie, his mother, and his sister, Ainsley, of course. They’d have brought the gift to him, though. Gave it to him personally. 

“What about Jennifer?” 

“She doesn’t know I’m in the hospital.” 

And she wouldn’t buy him a present, anyway. 

“You going to open it?” Gil teased. “Or stare at it?” 

Hesitant, fearing the bag would explode soon as he touched it, Malcolm pulled the red, orange, and yellow tissue paper out. He handed it to Gil before reaching inside the bag. 

His fingers encountered the hard cover of what felt like a book. Curious now, he pulled it out and turned it around. Shock washed over Malcolm when he saw it was a copy of _The Odyssey_. 

His fingers trembled as he slowly opened the book and read the inscription written on the inside cover: _Only our journey is written, not our destination. When you’re ready to begin yours, I will be waiting_.

It was signed with a sticker of a phoenix. 

_Real_ , he realized as he stared at that sticker. _They’re real._

He hadn’t hallucinated Robin and Fenix. 

They had been there last night. 

They stopped the men from killing him. 

Excitement replaced nerves. Bolstered his flagging confidence. Boosted what little esteem he had. 

“Who sent you _The Odyssey_?” 

Malcolm closed the book to keep Gil from seeing the inscription. Not because he didn’t trust him or thought he’d mock him for getting a book from a girl who signed her name with a sticker. He and Jackie were the only ones who never made fun of him. Not even when he said or did the most craziest or ridiculous of things. His hesitation was more because he didn’t know what Gil thought about superheroes. Many people considered them vigilantes. Saw them as one step above criminals. He read many articles calling for the government to create anti-vigilante laws that’d stop these heroes.

Vigilantism itself was not illegal.

However, the actions many of those heroes often engaged in, was.

If Fenix and Robin hadn’t been there at the docks, though, he’d be dead. 

If men like Batman weren’t helping the cops in Gotham, more innocent people would end up being hurt. 

Where was the line, though? 

_And how do they manage to stay on the other side of it?_

Malcolm found himself wanting to find out. 

_Only our journey is written, not our destination._

That’s what Fenix inscribed on the inside cover. 

Malcolm wondered what his destination was. 

_She says when I’m ready to begin my journey, she’ll be waiting._

How would she know when he was ready to begin his journey? 

Was she watching over him? 

His silent guardian in the way Batman was Gotham’s?

The thought brought him comfort instead of the usual array of panic and anxiety. 

“Kid?” 

“Huh?” He shook himself out of his musings to look at Gil. “What did you say?”

“I asked who sent you _The Odyssey_?” 

“Oh, she’s just someone I met.” It wasn’t a total lie. Fenix was someone he had recently met. “You don’t know her.” 

At least, he didn’t think Gil knew Fenix.

Or Batman and Robin for that matter.

_Gil is working with the Gotham City Police Department on his undercover assignment_ , he realized, darting another look at Gil’s face. _So, it’s possible he does know her._

Malcolm worked up the courage to ask if he did but was stopped when Gil sent him a teasing smile. 

“Just a girl you met, huh?”

“Mhm,” Malcolm replied as a nurse entered to take away his largely uneaten food tray. “Just a girl I met.” 

One he’d like to get to know better. 

Not that he told Gil that. 

He was allowed to have _some_ secrets, after all. 

And having a superhero guardian was better than many of the other secrets he had. 


	5. Chapter 5

A bolt of lightning scorched the sky as an electrically charged breeze swept the small alley between James Gordon's small house in the Narrows and the one on his left. Instincts honed while working the streets as a beat cop had him sweeping the shadows for signs of intruders. 

There was nothing there.

Not that it meant anything. 

Even the shadows in Gotham were dangerous. 

Gordon, a plastic bag in one hand that contained chicken fried rice, broccoli chicken, and sizzling rice soup, turned to look through the kitchen window. His oldest daughter, Barbara rolled around their small kitchen, getting out plates and bowls that she placed on their small dining room table. 

_Two of each_ , he noted, hair ruffling in the breeze. _Not the usual three._

Meant his youngest girl was not staying with them as expected. 

_Must be where she’s been every night for the last week_ , he thought as he reached into the right pocket of his overcoat for his keys. Thunder barked, rattling the windows, and Gordon's frazzled nerves. Another bolt of lightning lit up the alleyway.

"Storm coming."

"Son of a-!" Gordon nearly jumped from his skin at hearing that familiar growl. Even recognizing it, and knowing who it belonged didn't stop him from almost dropping the sack of food he held. “I wish you wouldn't do that sometimes."

"Sorry.”

Gordon turned to see the man crouched on the edge of his roof. Batman’s cape whipped behind him in the stiff breeze, reminding him of a pair of demonic wings. It was little wonder the man inspired fear in those he brought to justice. 

There was no doubt the Dark Knight cut an imposing figure. 

"Even after all these years,” he said as he set the bag on the stoop, “I haven’t gotten used to you appearing from out of thin air.” 

"Believe me." There might have been humor, just a sprinkle of it, lurking inside that low, dark rasp. "The moment you get used to me appearing out of thin air is when we both need to retire."

Gordon let out a soft grunt. 

“Like either of us can retire.” 

Not while the animals of this city continued running around. 

“There will come a time when neither of us will have a choice about retiring.” 

The man had a point. There would come a time when neither of them could avoid retiring. Age was catching up with them both. 

Him much more quickly than the man in shadows across from him.

Part of Gordon had always known that Batman, this version of him, anyway, would retire. When he did, he assumed Robin would take up the cape and cowl. _And train a protégé of his own._

Something he didn’t necessarily agree with. 

He always had a problem with Robin running around with Batman. Fighting dangerous individuals like Poison Ivy, the Scarecrow, Riddler... 

_The Joker._

A man even the other degenerates and criminally insane feared. 

One who wanted to watch the city, and all its inhabitants, burn. 

“So.” Gordon cleared his throat. “To what do I owe this visit?"

"I came to tell you that I have located another shipment of guns.” 

Gordon heaved a sigh. Much as he had hoped they had put an end to the shipments, part of him had known they hadn’t. 

“Where?” 

“Blüdhaven.” 

Of course. 

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. 

“Berkeley behind this shipment like he was the others?” 

“Yes.” The shadowy figure shifted. “I’ve already relayed the information to the BCPD. The weapons will be confiscated and Berkeley’s men arrested once the ship docks.”

“Good.” He and Batman weren’t always on the same page. There had been some friction between them over the long years of their association. He always trusted the man, though. He had plenty of reason, too. The man had come to Gotham's aid countless times over the years. _And to my own, as well_. This, however, was one of those times where they didn’t see things eye-to-eye. “We should have told our girl her father is the one responsible for the beating of the Whitly boy."

“She’d only be inclined to confront Berkeley about it."

"You think she‘d confront her father?" Gordon cocked one bushy eyebrow. “After we have expressly forbidden her from getting anywhere near that man?” 

"Raya would see it as her responsibility to bring her father to justice,” Batman said. “Not only for his involvement in the arms shipments but for what happened to the Whitly boy, as well."

“You’re right." Gordon let out a heavy breath. "She’s like you in that regard. Wants to see the guilty punished for the pain and suffering they’ve caused."

"She’s like you, too, Jim."

Gordon grunted softly. “That girl gets more like you with every passing day.” 

"I don’t want her to be like me." Burning eyes met Gordon’s. "I want her and Robin to be better than I am. To have everything they want out of life. To be who and what they want to be. To have lives outside of their masks.”

Gordon couldn’t fault the man for wanting the kids to have more in their lives than crime and criminals. 

It was what he wanted, as well.

That was why he expressly forbade Barbara and Raya from joining the law enforcement field. He couldn’t stop them from traipsing around Gotham with Batman. 

Not without revealing their identities to the world. 

Barbara had complied with his wishes, deciding to focus on double-majoring in history and library sciences over a career in law enforcement. 

Raya, on the other hand? 

That was the child he was absolutely positive would find a way to enter the law enforcement field whether he liked it or not. 

Not that he planned on allowing it to happen.

No more than the man perched in front of him would. 

“Is our girl keeping up her vigil of the Whitly kid?”

"Yes.” 

Gordon expected as much. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“I wouldn't allow her to keep an eye on the boy if I thought she was wasting her time."

Gordon's lips twitched. "Are we talking about the same girl? Because the one I'm talking about doesn't allow you to order her around anymore."

Batman didn’t smile. The most Jim ever saw him manage was a slight softening of his lips. 

"I remember when I used to be able to intimidate her into doing what it was I wanted her to do."

"Those days are over, my friend.” Gordon looked through the window at the girl with his green eyes and shock of red hair. Barbara might be eighteen but all he saw was the little girl with eyes twinkling mischievously, smiling lips stained with chocolate ice cream, and hair a mop of unruly curls around her angelic face. "They aren’t little girls anymore.” He flicked a look at the murky figure. “Raya has grown into her own because of your influence."

_Yours and that boy of yours._

"She still needs us to guide and protect her.” Batman looked inside to where Barbara waited. "Same as Barbara still needs you."

Gordon’s belly twisted with a familiar mix of anger and hate. All of it for the animal who put her in that wheelchair. He tamped down his emotions and asked the caped figure one question. 

"Have you sent your boy to keep an eye on our girl?”

"I dispatched Robin a half hour after she left," was Batman's soft reply. "He'll help her with keeping an eye on the Whitly boy."

There was nobody better equipped to keep Raya safe. Robin had only been doing so for half his life. The boy saved her and Barbara from those men Berkeley sent to kidnap them a few years ago. 

He also protected Raya and Barbara from that pervert, Mad Hatter. 

Prevented her from being blown up by the bomb the Joker placed in the train he hijacked that summer. 

He’d continue protecting his girls until he was either too old or dead to do it. 

“You’re not here just to tell me that you have Robin looking after our girl, are you?”

“No.” That cowled head moved in a way that almost resembled a shake of the head. “I’m not.”

"You're about to tell me something I‘m not going to want to particularly hear, aren't you?"

"There's a very good chance of that, yes."

Gordon realized he was only feeling moderately grim at that moment. That would change after Batman told him why he was there. He had never shied away from the truth, however. No matter how bad it was or how hurtful it might be, he would not turn from it. 

He never once shirked doing his duty. He'd spent his entire career making the decisions nobody else wanted to make, fighting the fight everyone else was too afraid of, and doing whatever he thought necessary to make sure Gotham didn’t get consumed by the darkness trying to infect it. 

One of those things had been to work with a costumed vigilante.

He had done plenty of things he wasn't proud of. He’d do them all again if it was necessary. He reconciled himself long ago to the fact that if he hadn't made those decisions that lots of people would have ended up hurt. 

_Or worse._

Gordon made split second decisions all the time. It was the nature of his job to make decisions in the heat of the moment. That was why the veteran detective stood up straighter and faced the man he could only make out between flashes of lightning.

"Good thing I took my blood pressure medicine before I left the precinct then." Gordon blew out a breath. "Okay, lay it on me."

"Raya believes Berkeley is connected to the Whitly boy’s father."

As far as news went, it wasn't the worst. Hell, it wasn’t the worst thing Gordon heard that day. It wasn’t the most horrible thing he heard that month. People formed alliances all the time. Especially the high society sect. Most often, they were looking for ways to increase their wealth and social status. 

This didn’t sound like that. Berkeley and Whitly were even socially and financially. There was little they could gain from a partnership.

“How does she think they’re connected?” 

“She believes some of Martin Whitly’s victims might be connected to her father.”

That wasn’t what Gordon expected him to say. His brow lowered over the bridge of his nose. 

“Why?”

_How_ , he added silently.

“She noticed that some of the people on the missing person list disappeared at the time Whitly was active as _The Surgeon_. Many,” Batman rumbled as the sky lit up behind him, “were clients and associates of Berkeley’s.”

Gordon’s eyes blinked wide as he realized why the Dark Knight agreed to allow their girl to act as the Whitly boy’s silent guardian.

”That’s the reason you allowed her to keep an eye on the Whitly boy.” 

“Yes.” Lightning flashed, outlining Batman. “I sent her to investigate her theory. If she’s right, we might be able to provide closure to a number of families.”

“I can put her in contact with someone who has knowledge of _The Surgeon_ case.” _And is close to the Whitly kid_. “He can help her with tracking down leads. Running credit card bills and phone logs. Talk to the main detectives who were involved in the case so they don’t get upset about a kid questioning them.” 

Gordon realized he was talking to himself long before he finished that statement.

He grunted softly and reached for the bag of food he set down as thunder grumbled overhead. 

"... been a while since you've done that,” he said as he unlocked the door and went inside. 

…

Dick entered Bruce’s Manhattan penthouse to find Raya seated on the couch in sweats and one of his t-shirts. _So, that’s where my Flips shirt’s been. Shoulda known she pilfered it._

Even though she wasn’t as big a fan of the group as he was.

He shook his head as he dropped his duffel off by his bedroom door before heading into the living room. One eyebrow quirked at Raya being there in the penthouse instead of where she usually was of late: camped atop the roof of the brownstone across from the one where Malcolm Whitly lived with his mother and younger sister. 

“You’re not on Whitly patrol tonight?” 

Raya glanced up from the laptop balanced across her knees, lips pursed from her intense study of whatever she was reading, and eyes slightly unfocused behind the lenses of her glasses. 

“What did you say?”

Dick rolled his eyes as he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it across the back of a chair. 

“I asked why you’re not Whitly sitting tonight.”

“He’s spending the night with the detective and his wife.” 

A grin tugged at Dick’s lips as he flopped down beside her on the couch and reached for the television remote. 

“What?” He teased. “Couldn’t find a way to camp out there that wouldn’t get you spotted by Detective Arroyo?” 

Raya sent him a look full of smug feminine superiority. 

“The tree in their backyard works perfectly as a lookout spot, actually.” 

Dick chuckled as he settled back to catch up on some of his shows. Not surprisingly, the news channel was the first thing that came up when he turned the television on. _She’s as predictable as Bruce, I swear._

“ _Criminal Minds_ is on.” 

Dick snorted a laugh. “You watch _Criminal Minds_ to test your profiling skills.” 

Raya harrumphed. “ _Supernatural_ is on the DVR with _Bones_ then.” 

“You only like _Supernatural_ for the guy who plays Dean.” 

“And you only like _Bones_ for the actress who plays Angela.” 

“Touché.” Dick flipped over to _Criminal Minds_. A fair compromise in his mind. “So, why’re you here and not keeping your usual vigil?” 

Not that he minded. 

In fact, he had been thrilled when Bruce asked him to come keep an eye on Raya. 

They hadn’t gotten to spend a lot of time together since she graduated. 

His responsibilities to Batman and the Titans, school, and his growing relationship with Barbara kept them from spending as much time together as they used to. What time he did have usually came while Raya was in classes or at work.

Keeping an eye on the ships at New York Harbor had been the first chance they had to hang out since early summer. 

Until Nico and his boys decided to beat up the Whitly kid. 

He was looking forward to a little downtime with her. 

Catching up on their shows, talking.

_Maybe talk her into going ice skating._

The last was pretty iffy, though. 

It was already after nine and the guy on the radio predicted snow by midnight. 

“I finally found some bank records that might give me the answer I am looking for.” 

“Bank records?” Dick glanced at the computer screen. “Whose?”

“My father’s.” 

“Your father’s?” Dick hadn’t expected that. An eyebrow lifted as his eyes scanned the information on the screen. “What’re you looking through his bank records for?” 

“A connection between him and Martin Whitly.” 

“The Whitly kid’s father?” Dick’s brow furrowed. “Why do you think there’s a connection between him and your father?” 

Not that he doubted her. 

Seven years as her friend and partner taught Dick to listen whenever she suspected a connection between people. _Especially when one of those individuals is her father._

A man who’d stop at nothing to obtain power and control. 

_Include murder his own daughter._

Something Dick swore would never happen. 

Not while there was breath left in his body. 

“Ashley Grande went missing a few months before Whitly was arrested.” Raya removed her glasses and placed them in the small case he bought her for her last birthday. “Her husband, Alastair, was a close friend and client of my fathers.” 

“Yeah, and?”

“I think her husband had my father get rid of her.”

“Why use The Surgeon, though?” Dick leaned forward and placed the tv remote on the coffee table before turning towards her. “Why not use Croc to get rid of her? As he’s done before.”

“That’s what I’m still working on.” 

Dick reached over and plucked her laptop from her lap. 

“How about I look through these bank records while you order pizza and breadsticks from that place Bruce always takes us when he’s in Manhattan?”

“You’re going to willingly help me go through my father’s bank records?” One dark brow lifted. “Why? What do you want in return?”

“Geez, you’re getting more and more like Bruce every day,” he joked. “Suspicious about everything and everyone.”

Raya rolled her eyes. “I’m _nowhere_ near as bad as Bruce.” 

“Yeah, you’re cuter and cuddlier.” He grinned at her snort. “What? You are.” 

“Could you be serious?” 

“I’m being completely serious.” 

“You look through those records.” Raya pushed to her feet. “I’ll go order the pizza.” 

“Don’t sneak pineapple on the pizza this time.” 

“Pineapple and pepperoni rocks, bird boy.” 

“Put pineapple on my pizza and see what happens.” 

It was an empty threat. 

She knew it and he knew it. 

“Supreme then?” 

Dick nodded, satisfied with her compromise. He settled the computer in his lap and started searching for transactions that connected Martin Whitly with Matthew Berkeley as she headed into the kitchen to make the call. He hoped they‘d find a link between Raya’s father and Malcolm’s. Not only because they’d provide answers to a number of families who had no idea what happened to their loved ones, but because they’d bring justice to the ones who lost their lives.

Part of him also wanted to make this connection to finally see Matthew Berkeley get what he so richly deserved: a jail cell. 

Right next to Martin Whitly if they got lucky.


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm traced the words written inside the front cover of the book given to him by a girl he didn’t even know the name of with one finger. 

Well, he didn’t know her real name, anyway. 

He _did_ know she called herself Fenix. Partner of Robin. Both protégées of Batman. His saviors from his “impetuosity”, as his mother called it.

Beyond that he had no clue as to who either was. 

They were his age. He managed to figure that much out despite the masks the two used to conceal their identities. Educated, too. Both spoke with the clipped tones familiar among his peers. The possibility of Robin and Fenix being from his social circle filled him with a mixture of intrigue and exhilaration. Malcolm tried to picture himself donning a mask and taking to the rooftops with them but failed. He was no hero. Not like they were. He didn’t have their courage or skill.

He could, though, he realized as he traced those flowing words.

 _Only our journey is written, not our destination_ , he read for the thousandth time. _When you’re ready to begin yours, I will be waiting_.

Malcolm was ready to begin that journey now. He wanted to learn to fight as they did. Be strong as they were. As confident. 

He wanted to become the hero Gil always told him he was. 

“Malcolm!” His eleven year old sister, Ainsley, bounced into his room, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re home!”

“So are you, Ainse,” he couldn’t resist teasing. 

“Mom didn’t say you were coming home.”

“She didn’t agree until Gabrielle said it’d be better for me to come home.”

“She’s right.”

Malcolm’s lips edged up into a smile. “Who was at your slumber party?”

“Dana, Julia and Krystal.” 

Malcolm closed his book and set it next to him on the bed. “What did you do?” 

“We ate pizza and watched _Uptown Girls_ and _The Lizzie McGuire Movie_.” Ainsley flounced over, blonde hair bouncing around her face, and a playful smile on her lips. “You’d have hated them. Thought them silly.” 

She continued to chatter away about what she did at her sleepover. Normally, Malcolm didn’t mind her animated commentary. His sister was a ray of sunshine in his otherwise dark world. Today, he wished he could blot her out with a pair of dark drapes. 

Best he could do for the moment was tune her out. Not that it helped all that much. His head continued to ache, his ribs still throbbed with his every breath, and his side pulsed with a burning pain he especially didn’t like. 

On top of that, his belly rolled from the breakfast his mother insisted he eat, and his eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. He managed two hours worth of sleep in the last two nights. An improvement over the zero he had gotten while in the hospital. 

He never slept in hospitals, though. Fear of his night terrors and of being sedated prevented him from relaxing enough to sleep. Malcolm had also feared if he slept he’d miss Fenix. Foolishly, he believed her or Robin would come visit him in the hospital. Especially after Fenix left him _The Odyssey_ with the personal note scribbled inside. 

“Malcolm?”

His sister speaking his name in the same frustrated way their mother did whenever he wasn’t paying attention got Malcolm to look at her. 

“What is it, Ainsley?”

She frowned at him. “You weren’t listening were you?” 

“No, I wasn’t,” Malcolm admitted sheepishly. Not that he’d tell her why he hadn’t been paying attention. Ainsley would demand he tell her everything. Something he wasn’t in the mood to do. “What were you saying?” 

“I swear, you’re bad as Mom.” Malcolm didn’t agree with that comparison at all. He was about to hotly contest it, in fact, but Ainsley flopped down onto the bed with a huff, shooting searing pain through his hip and ribs. “I asked you to come ice skating with me this afternoon.”

The last thing Malcolm wanted to do was go ice skating. Especially with his ribs screaming at him after she bounced him on the bed. He did not need to get shoved down on the ice, risking fracturing his ribs or worse, breaking them. Beyond that, the bruises on his face had started to go a ghastly shade of green. Last thing he wanted was to spend all afternoon being called Hulk’s wimpy cousin or Swamp Thing’s leftovers.

“I don’t feel like going ice skating today, Ainse.” Her disappointed sigh had tennis balls bouncing around in his queasy belly. “Maybe we can go next week when my ribs are healed,” he offered as an alternative. “How’s that sound?” 

“Okay.” Ainsley‘s dimples winked. “We can go shopping for presents after.” 

“Already got yours and no,” he said before she could ask — demand was more like it, what it was, “I’m not telling you what I got you.” 

“You’re no fun, bro,” she huffed.

“Christmas presents should be a surprise.” 

“If they’re good, yes.” 

“Even if they’re bad.”

She slanted a wry look at him. “Remember those dreadful sweaters Aunt Miriam sent us last year?” 

Malcolm couldn’t forget. The material was abrasive, the green color atrocious, and the size more for a child of ten than someone sixteen. 

“You don’t have to wear yours when she comes on Christmas Eve.”

“You could have lost yours.” Malcolm hummed a laugh that turned into a soft groan as his ribs protested. “Still hurting you?” Ainsley’s tone was one of sympathy. 

“Not so much.”

The lie was easy to say out loud. Harder to prove when a grimace twisted his features as he pushed himself into a seated position. Ainsley helped by fluffing the pillow he tossed to the floor sometime during the night and placing it behind him. 

“Mom would probably say no to you going ice skating.” 

Malcolm could guarantee that. If he was allowed out of the house after his injuries healed would be a miracle. He hoped it meant she wouldn’t make him go back to school. He hatred it there. Nobody sat with him at meals, worked with him on team assignments or wanted him as their friend. 

“Sorry, Ainse.” 

“It’s okay,” she assured him. Like she always did when he didn’t want to do something she did. “I’ll stay and keep you company, instead. Won’t have to listen to Mom complain about how cold it is that way.” 

Malcolm still felt terrible. “You sure you don’t mind staying home?”

“Positive.” Ainsley flashed him one of her brilliant smiles as she got to her feet. “We can catch up on some of the shows you missed while in the hospital.”

“I was only in the hospital three days,” Malcolm said wryly. “I only missed the new episode of _House_.” 

“And _Boston Legal_ , _CSI: NY_ , _How To Catch A Predator.._.” 

_Two of those are her favorite shows_ , Malcolm thought, ducking his head to hide his amusement. He didn’t tell her he only watched them with her because he enjoyed spending time with her. Ainsley was wise enough to know that was why he watched those shows with her. 

“We can watch all of them,” he told her as he set _The Odyssey_ on the nightstand. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.” 

Ainsley’s attention, however, was on his book. Her crinkled brow and pursed lips warned Malcolm the junior investigative reporter was about to make an appearance. “When did you get _The Odyssey_?” 

“A few days ago.” That much was truth. “A friend gave it to me.” 

“A friend, huh?” Ainsley teased. “Would that friend be a girl?” 

Heat crept up Malcolm’s throat and burned in his cheeks. There was no getting around telling his sister who gave him the book, though. When Ainsley smelled a secret, she pursued it until she got to the truth. That his sister had the investigative skills of a reporter three times her age was as much a curse as it was amusing. 

“Yes, it‘s from a girl.” 

One Malcolm found himself thinking about far too often. He shouldn’t be so pre-occupied with Fenix. He didn’t know her. At least... His brow crinkled. He didn’t _think_ he did. 

Truth was, Fenix could be someone he encountered at school or one of the functions his mother tended to drag him to when he was home. _She could be a complete stranger_ , he acknowledged silently. Someone who happened to come along at the right time and save him from some bad men. 

“Who is she?” Ainsley asked, breaking Malcolm from his thoughts. “Is she one of the girls Mom was trying to get you to go out with before you started going out with Jennifer?” 

His... _relationship_ , if one wanted to call it such, with Jennifer wasn’t something Malcolm wanted to get into. Not with his sister. Gil, maybe. Ainsley? No way. 

“She’s definitely _not_ one of the girls Mom has tried to get me to go out with.” 

Only time any of them wore masks was to costume parties. 

They also wouldn’t go out and fight crime like Fenix does. They’d find it beneath them. Something best for common people like Gil to do. 

“So, who is she then?” 

Malcolm carefully swung his legs to the side of the bed. “Just a girl I know.” 

As far as he was concerned, it was the truth. 

He did _know_ Fenix. 

He just didn’t have any clue who she was when she _wasn’t_ a superhero. 

_She said she’d be here when I was ready to begin my journey. Well_ , Malcolm wondered as he slowly stood, _where is she_? 

Because he was ready to start whatever journey she was promising to take him on. _I just want to get away from here_.

“Just a girl you know. Uh huh. Sure.” Ainsley tossed her head and fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m going to find out who she is sooner or later.”

“I don’t doubt it, Ainse.” He sent her a small smile as he made his way towards the door. “Let’s go watch television.” 

“Fine.” Her dimples winked. “But I’m going to grill you more about her later.” 

Malcolm didn’t doubt it for one minute. 

...

“ _Arnold Thurstrom was a patient of Martin Whitly’s in 1996_.” Barbara stared at Raya from the other side of the computer screen. “ _As was Mitchell Hanson, Gregory Stephenson, and Carter Hill_.” 

Raya checked the names against her father’s client list. “All four hired my father’s firm.” 

“ _To do what_?” 

“Draft wills, set up trusts, handle estate details.” She skimmed her notes. “My father’s firm represented Mitchell Hanson in his lawsuit against the company who manufactured the equipment that failed and caused a number of deaths at his factory.”

“ _So, they were all members of Gotham high society_.” 

“With the exception of Joanna Rochester, yes.” 

Barbara’s brow crinkled. “ _Why do I know that name_?” 

“She was the Rochester’s nanny before becoming wife number two after Helen Rochester disappeared.” 

“ _I thought Helen Rochester drove off a cliff_?” 

“Her BMW was thought to be found at the bottom of a cliff.” Raya reached into a box for a folder. “Dick found evidence, though, that says it wasn’t her BMW.” 

“ _Whose was it_?”

“Her husband’s.”

Barbara’s eyes widened. “ _He switched the plates_?”

“And hired a stuntman to drive it off the cliff.”

“ _To make it look like Helen lost control_.”

Raya nodded. “Nobody thought to question it because why would they?” 

“ _What made you look into her death_?“

“Helen was on her way home from a fundraiser in New York.” Raya opened the file and turned it so Barbara could see it. “The Milton Foundation raised over five million dollars that year for cancer research.”

“ _Milton as in Jessica Whitly_.”

“Who attended the event with her husband...” 

“ _Martin Whitly_.” 

Raya closed the file and reached for another. “Helen led me to Marian Carter.”

“ _Doesn’t her husband, Andrew Carter, own Hill Bros_?”

“The tenth largest-selling company of ground coffee in the United States,” Raya confirmed with a nod. “And yet, it almost went out of business in 1996.” 

“ _It did?_ ” Barbara’s eyebrows arched. “ _Why_?” 

“Series of bad investments left Carter near bankrupt.” Raya opened the file. “Lost millions when the island he bought was devastated by a hurricane. Lost millions more when the coffee houses he opened fizzled. The money he inherited after his wife was presumed dead saved the company.”

“ _Money is a pretty good motive for killing your wife_.” 

“If we can prove it was murder.” Something none of them had been able to do. “That’s the problem. We have no idea where Marian might be buried.”

 _“We have the date she was reported missing.”_ Barbara’s fingers started flying over her keyboard. _“We can work out where she was leading up to her disappearance.”_

“You work on that.” Raya reached for a notepad. “I’ll see if I can’t figure out when she crossed paths with Martin Whitly.”

Barbara blinked in surprise. “ _You aren’t going to check on Malcolm Whitly_? _I heard he was released from the hospital last night.”_

“I will be going to check on him tonight.” Same as she checked on him last night and the night before. “I’m waiting on a call from Commissioner Brannigan. He’s going to put me in contact with one of the detectives who worked _The Surgeon_ case.”

“ _Don’t forget_ _Dad told you he doesn’t want you going to see Martin Whitly_.”

“I have no intention of going to see Martin Whitly,” Raya said primly. “He wouldn’t tell the truth for one and would only use my going to see him to manipulate Malcolm.”

Martin Whitly had enough power over his son. 

She planned to teach Malcolm how to take it back. 

To reclaim himself and his fragmented identity. 

_When Malcolm’s ready to start his journey, he will call._

Until then? She’d continue looking for the evidence that‘d put Martin Whitly in a prison cell with her bastard of a father. 


	7. Chapter 7

Malcolm watched, morbidly fascinated as the small horizontal cut he made across his wrist wept openly, freely. 

Oozed sanguine relief. 

A part of him knew he shouldn’t have done it. 

That he shouldn’t have cut his wrist. 

Not while he was staying here at Gil and Jackie’s. 

He should have waited until he was home, alone. 

He needed the release, though. 

Needed to watch as his blood ran down the side of the bathtub in thick, gooey streams. 

The pressure inside his head, his chest had started building a few days before what happened at the docks and grown steadily worse in the days since.

Part of Malcolm feared that if he didn’t release some of the thoughts and emotions pent-up inside him, and soon, he’d explode. 

A cataclysmic explosion with the magnitude of Pompeii or Krakatoa. 

Only, instead of covering everything in a thick coat of hot ash, he’d simply be a huge bloody stain left all over Gil and Jackie’s bathroom.

A _Mal-strophe_ , they’d call it. 

A faint rumble in his chest was all he could manage for his macabre joke.

If Malcolm was being honest, really, _really_ honest, he’d admit he wanted the bright bite and shock of the pain as much as he needed to release the pressure. 

He wanted, needed the pleasure from the knife sliding through his flesh. 

Malcolm thrived on watching as the blood welled up, oozed out, slid down his arm, leg or abdominal region. 

His reliance on cutting, the brief euphoria it provided him, shamed him. 

Horrified him.

He couldn’t stop, though.

Cutting was the only thing that quieted the shadow creatures living inside the white noise that filled his head. 

He could live with the white static, though. 

The handful of medications he swallowed on a daily basis quieted the noise for short periods of time. 

The shadow creatures who taunted him, laughed at him, shouted obscenities at him were what he struggled hardest with. 

Currently, they urged him to take the knife he snuck out of the kitchen while Jackie was on the phone with her sister and cut his other wrist. 

Add to the crimson river staining his shirt and the light sweats Jackie convinced him to put on. 

_It’ll be the ultimate release_ , they whispered in their hot, moist breath. _We promise._

Lured by their assurance that his pain and torment would drain away with another cut, Malcolm reached for the knife he set on the edge of the tub. 

It trembled as he held it before him. 

Not that he feared the pain.

He learned over the summer that slicing open his skin didn’t hurt any worse than the bee sting he got while helping Jackie prune her rose bushes. 

The ones Gil bought her because roses planted in the ground lasted longer than a bouquet of them.

_Red roses_ , he recalled as he watched his blood slide down the drain. _They had been red roses._

Symbols of love. 

Passion. 

Reminders of sweet and tender moments between Gil and Jackie. 

Moments he’d never have because who’d love a freak like him? 

Jennifer certainly hadn’t. 

No, she used him to get into an exclusive club. 

For three months, she pretended she was his girlfriend. 

For three months, she told him he was special, not the weirdo everyone thought he was. 

Lies. 

It had all been lies. 

He found out the truth when she drug him to a party at the home of Maxwell Brightwell two nights ago.

Malcolm had many encounters with Max after his father’s arrest. 

All ending in bruises, split lips, and bloody noses. 

Humiliated, sick at heart, and not wanting to go home, he called Jackie. Asked her to come and get him. Bring him back to her and Gil’s. 

Not like he needed to ask twice. 

A glimpse of the rosebush outside the kitchen window sent him spiraling out of control. 

Blood and death. 

That was what they represented to him. 

Blood and death and a pocket knife given to him by his father. A gift for the camping trip they went on while his mother and Ainsley were in the Hamptons. A camping trip where something happened but he couldn’t remember what. 

Restless energy traveled through Malcolm’s hands, into his wrists, and rattled up into his elbows as an image of his younger self running through dark woods rose up to taunt him. 

_He ran like a wild thing, tearing through the dry brush, jumping over broken tree limbs, racing down a narrow pathway towards an unknown destination._

_His breath came in gasps, tattered by fear, and his heart slammed against his ribcage._

_Escape was his only thought._

_From what?_

_Who?_

_He had no idea._

_The only thing Malcolm knew for certain was he needed to get away._

_Find somewhere safe._

_Hide._

_In the absence of the moon, though, he was blind._

_Branches slapped at his face, tore at his hair, ripped at his clothes._

_Added to the terror almost overwhelming him._

_In his hand he clutched a pocket knife. The jagged edges of which were stained with a thick red substance._

_Blood._

Whose, though? 

Malcolm had no clue. 

What he did know was the blood was not his. He had no cuts on him that would have coated the knife in that much stickiness. He believed the blood belonged to the girl. The one in the box. Nobody believed him about her, though. They all told him she was a figment of his imagination. Something his mind made up. Malcolm knew he hadn’t. She was real. Same as the deep cut on his wrist was real. He blew out a soft, shaky breath as he stared at the bloody knife, contemplated using it to make a similar cut to his other wrist. 

_Free_ , the shadow things whispered. _You’ll finally be free._

No more hearing his father tell him they’re the same or insinuating how he wanted him to follow in his footsteps. 

No more of his mother watching his every move because she feared he’d suddenly become a monster if she didn’t. 

No more sneak attacks in the locker-room or his dormitory. 

No more whispers and snide comments from teachers and classmates. 

No more silent guardians promising they’d come when he was ready to begin his journey and then never coming for him.

Fenix’s betrayal hurt him most of all. 

_Do it_ , the shadow creatures taunted. _One deep slice and it’ll all be over._

He’d be out of misery. 

No more being fussed and worried over. 

No more feeling like he was someone people put up with. 

No more a hindrance to their lives.

He’d be free of the shame, the fear, and the doubt. 

Free of the guilt. 

Malcolm placed the knife horizontally to his wrist, pressed, but his father’s voice stopped him. 

“ _Shallow cuts like on your other wrist will not accomplish the job_.” Malcolm remained focused on the knife pressed into his skin. If he looked up, saw his father’s smiling face, he’d lose his nerve. “ _Deep vertical cuts starting at the pulse point on the wrist and extending up the long axis of the arm to the crook of the elbow will get the job done.”_

“Why will that way work but mine won’t?”

“ _Because, my boy, the radial artery is close to the surface of the skin but dips down deep a few centimeters up. You will need to make a deep cut if you want to sever it_.” 

What his father said made sense. 

Like it always did. 

He was _The Surgeon_ , after all. 

With his father watching from over his shoulder and the shadow creatures cheering him on, Malcolm pressed the tip of the knife into his skin, watching as blood started to well up, and content with the knowledge that in less than a minute it’d all be over...

…

“Gil should be home in half an hour,” Jackie told her sister. “And I haven’t started dinner.” 

“ _Make him take you out to dinner_.”

“We have Malcolm this weekend.”

“ _Kid has to eat, too_.”

”His eating has slid to nothing since his assault.” 

Not that his eating was great to begin with. When she got Malcolm to eat a small bowl of soup and crackers was a good day. 

“ _Poor kid_.” Sympathy coated her sister’s voice. “ _Why don’t you bring him up here tomorrow? He can help Ricky with his science project and I’ll make my tortilla soup_.” 

“I think he’d like that,” Jackie admitted. “He enjoys spending time with Ricky.” 

“ _And my tortilla soup._ ” 

Jackie chuckled softly.

“And your tortilla soup.” 

“ _All right, we’ll see you tomorrow unless something changes_.” 

“Okay, see you tomorrow.” 

The line went dead. Jackie hung up the phone and headed back to the kitchen to ask Malcolm what he wanted for dinner. 

Not that she expected him to give her a straight answer. 

He rarely did when it came to the topic of food. 

Jackie was bound and determined to get him to eat more than a few bites of some dry toast and scrambled eggs. That her Bright-Boy’s eating had slid to next to nothing since his release from the hospital was beyond clear. Gil suggested the reason for it was a combination of his meds and the physical pain he was in from his assault upsetting his stomach. Jackie suspected there was more to it than that. Something compelled Malcolm to go down to the docks to find Gil.

_And my bet is on it being girl trouble._

Jackie met Malcolm’s girlfriend when she dropped him off at her house a few weeks back. Once was all she needed to know the girl was trouble. There had been a sneaky, deceitful, and manipulative aura about Jennifer that put her hackles up. She didn’t voice her opinion to Malcolm, though. He wouldn’t have believed her and only have gotten upset because she didn’t like his girlfriend. Jackie expressed her concerns to Gil, who admitted he had the same reservations she did. 

“ _We have to let him navigate these waters on his own_ ,” he said when she questioned what they should do. “ _Malcolm has to learn the ups and downs of relationships. It’s all part of growing up._ ” 

Jackie agreed. 

She just didn’t want to see her Bright-Boy get hurt. 

_Worse than he already is_ , she amended with a sigh. 

Getting Malcolm to open up and tell her what was bothering him wouldn’t be easy. Her Bright-Boy tended to clam up tighter than a clam when it came to his feelings. She had to do something, though. If not, Malcolm would continue to simmer and stew until the pressure became too much. _And that_ , she decided as she entered the kitchen, _is a situation we cannot let happen._

Not again.

“What do you...?” her voice trailed off as she realized Malcolm was no longer sitting at the table and reading the book someone gave him while he was in the hospital. “Malcolm?” 

There was no reply. 

Jackie told herself not to worry. That he likely had gone to the bathroom. He’d be out in a minute. Then they’d start the long process of cracking open the vault that Malcolm Whitly kept his emotions locked up in. _Tea_ , Jackie decided, moving to the stove. Tea always helped to soothe Malcolm when he was out of sorts. It was something she discovered after Gil started bringing him over. 

Earl Gray for him and chamomile for her. 

Sometimes he’d consent and eat a couple of the tea cookies she kept in the cookie jar Gil bought her on their first anniversary. Oatmeal lace for him and Galletas con Chochitos for her. A tingle started at the base of her spine as she reached for the tea kettle set on the back burner, but she ignored it. She was being paranoid. He was just in the bathroom for chrissakes! A voice inside her head persisted. Told her something wasn’t right. Something was wrong. 

Something was _missing_.

Jackie swept the counters, the floor, the small table they took all their meals at unless it was a special occasion. Nothing seemed out of place. In fact, everything was right where it should be. 

Her gaze then landed on the knife block next to the stove. 

One, she realized, heart stopping, was missing. 

_The paring knife_. Her breath whooshed out of her as the reason why it was gone dawned. _No. God, no._ The tea kettle clanged as she dropped it back onto the burner. 

Not that Jackie cared. 

Her only thought was to get to Malcolm before he could use that paring knife on himself. Jackie spun and raced down the hall to the bathroom, fear an icy poker in her belly, breath sobbing from between her frozen lips.

“Malcolm!” She grabbed the doorknob and twisted, expecting it not to open, praying it would. “Malcolm!” 

No answer came from the boy behind that closed door. 

Fear and helplessness ruled until there was nothing else inside her, no reason, no sense, no answer.

The door, thankfully, opened. 

Jackie rushed in and found Malcolm in the bathtub, head bowed, skin a pale, waxy color. The paring knife rest on the side of the tub. Blood soaked the front of his shirt and the sweats she talked him into wearing. More oozed from the cuts Malcolm made in his skin with the paring knife. Jackie wanted to fall to her knees beside the tub. Wanted to grab her beautiful Bright-Boy in her arms and hold him tight. Wanted to erase those ugly cuts he made. 

“ _Fall apart after the crisis_ ,” was what her mother’d tell her if she was there. 

Jackie grabbed towels from the rack to wrap his wrists with. She then dropped to her knees next to the tub to better assess his injuries. The cut on his left wrist was not as deep as the one on his wrist. Both required medical attention, though. More than she could provide here.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said as she carefully wrapped a towel around his left wrist. “You’re gonna be okay.“

Malcolm blinked his eyes as he looked up at her. 

“I’m sorry.” The desolation and despair in those blue depths hurt worse than a slap to the face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbled again as his chin dropped to his chest. “So sorry.”

“No, sweetie.” Jackie wasted one precious second to stroke a hand over his glossy hair. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

She was the one who was sorry. 

She should have seen he was in crisis. That the pressure had built to critical levels. 

_I shouldn’t have left him alone._

Guilt mixed with the fear poking holes in her heart and soul. Jackie pushed her feelings aside and focused on helping Malcolm. He was what mattered at that moment. She wrapped two towels around his other arm to make sure to stem the blood pouring freely from the long, jagged wound. 

_Get him to the hospital_ , her mind screamed. _You have to get him to the hospital._

To do that she needed a phone. 

It was in the kitchen, though. 

Her eyes fell on Malcolm’s cellphone, perched on the lid of the toilet. She finished wrapping his right wrist and grabbed it. 

“Hold on, baby,” she told him as she dialed 911. “Just hold on.” 

...

Gil stared through the observation window at the boy seated cross-legged in the middle of a hospital bed in a white t-shirt and pair of loose fitting flannel night pants. Snowy white bandages hid the cuts he made with a paring knife less than twenty-four hours ago. _Ten stitches in his left wrist. Twenty-five in the right._ Malcolm’s doctor told them he had no explanation for how none of the muscle or tendons in the kid’s right hand had been damaged.

Jackie called it a miracle. 

Jessica said it was pure dumb luck.

Gil didn’t know what to make of it. His mind was too fixated on how they almost lost Malcolm for the second time in two weeks. He could excuse what happened at the docks. Malcolm hadn’t gone looking for trouble. He didn’t ask those men to assault him.

He did take that paring knife from the knife block.

He did go into the bathroom, climb into the bathtub.

He did use that knife on himself with the intent to end his life. 

Gabrielle Le Doux recommended they commit Malcolm to Children of Bellevue for inpatient treatment. Jessica, predictably, had been against it, citing she’d pay to get Malcolm into a private institution so he’d get the best care. Doctor Le Doux stood her ground and told Jessica the Department of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry at Bellevue Hospital Center were pioneers in the field of child mental health. 

“ _It’s the best place for Malcolm right now given the circumstances.”_

Jessica finally consented to committing him to the facility after Malcolm tried to tear his stitches out. The kid needed more help than he, Jackie or his mother could provide. 

Not that Malcolm agreed. 

He never did, though.

A sullen, withdrawn expression suffused Malcolm’s face as the therapist said something to him. His head bowed and his shoulders slumped. The kid didn’t like being here. Well, that was too bad. They couldn’t trust him not to try and take his life again. 

_Why_? he begged the boy he loved like his own. _Why do you want to die so badly_?

What drove the kid over the edge? 

Gil tried to ask him on the drive to the hospital but Malcolm glared silent accusations at him the entire way. 

What could he do, though? 

Malcolm clearly couldn’t be trusted. Not when he was willing to take a paring knife to his wrists. If he didn’t suffer any lasting physical effects would be a true miracle. 

The psychological ones? 

Those he didn’t think would ever go away. 

Gil blew out a breath as Malcolm shrugged at whatever the therapist asked him. Trust issues and the kid went together like strawberries and whip cream. And the reason for those trust issues?

_Martin Whitly._

A highly respected cardiac surgeon and upstanding member of New York’s high society who murdered a minimum of twenty-three people. 

Most of them members of his inner social circle. 

Gil fully believed Whitly tried to turn his son into a murderer. Things Malcolm said and did all suggested there may have been a sort of grooming behavior going on between he and his father. The fact Whitly routinely addressed Malcolm as “my boy” or “my son” further confirmed his suspicions about what the man was doing when he was alone with the kid. As did Malcolm’s lack of an identity of his own. 

Anger and hate coursed through Gil. 

Mingled with his guilt.

His fear.

Whitly traumatized his son to the point Malcolm hadn't been able to speak for months after his arrest. He only started speaking again after Jessica agreed to allow him visitations with his father. Something Gil vehemently disagreed with but had no say over. 

Malcolm wasn’t his son. 

Something Whitly loved reminding him about each chance he got.

Gil wished he could end the kid’s visits with his father. 

The kid barely ate on a good day. 

Hardly slept because of the nightmares that assaulted him soon as he closed his eyes.

Needed a cocktail of drugs to keep him moderately functional.

Couldn't form friendships with his peers because his ability to trust had been so badly broken.

Malcolm denied himself happiness because he didn't believe he deserved it. 

He developed this idea he deserved to rot in hell along with his father despite not having done anything but call the cops once he realized Whitly had done something bad.

The control and influence Whitly had over Malcolm would diminish if he stopped interacting with his father on a regular basis. 

_Malcolm might even manage to heal from the damage Whitly caused._

He wanted that more than anything. 

Gil’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Muttering a few choice words, he pulled it from his pocket to see who called. The name on the caller ID had his eyebrows shooting upwards. 

_Why’s Jim calling me_? 

The task force confiscated the weapons shipment and arrested the men onboard the ships. 

There was no logical reason for why Jim could be calling him.

Especially since he had his hands full with things in Gotham. 

Gil dialed his voicemail to see what was up. The message Jim left him offered the answer he had been searching for. 

“ _My niece, Raya, is in your neck of the woods investigating a possible connection between Martin Whitly and her father, Matthew Berkeley. Was hoping you could lend her a hand in talking with the detectives who worked the case. Call me when you get a chance and we can discuss it._ ” 

Gil remembered Gordon’s niece as a pretty thing. About Malcolm’s age. With a father tied with Martin Whitly for Father of the Year. 

_Maybe that’s what the kid needs_ , Gil realized as he looked back at Malcolm. _Maybe someone his age who also has been traumatized by their father can get him to talk. Get him to open up._

It was worth a shot. 

Wasn’t like they had anything to lose really.

Gil pulled up Gordon’s number and hit call. There were two rings before Jim answered. 

“ _Gordon_.”

“Jim?” Gil said. “I need a favor...”

_A huge one_ , he added silently. 


	8. Chapter 8

At ten that evening, Bruce Wayne thumbed the off button on the television remote and watched as the television screen he and Alfred had been watching winked out. 

"I take it you will not be spending a quiet evening at home, Master Bruce?" 

Bruce flicked a mildly amused look over at him. "When was the last time I actually had a quiet evening at home, Alfred?"

“The last time you had a quiet evening at home was after Miss Raya convinced you to bring Master Richard home from the orphanage.” 

Bruce hummed a quiet laugh. “After she got her way, you mean.” 

“She was quite determined about you bringing Master Richard to live with us.” 

“Yes.” Bruce sent the butler an amused look. “Considering she had your full support and encouragement.” 

“I admit she had my full support, sir.” A slight twinkle appeared in Alfred’s eyes. “Not that she needed it. Miss Raya was quite set on Master Richard coming to live here at Wayne Manor.”

“She was right to push for me to bring him to live with us.” Bruce’s lips quirked. “That is why I did not argue with her about Jason.” 

No, he brought the eleven year old boy home before either Raya or Dick got wind of his intentions. 

“They have taken to the boy.” 

“I was never concerned about how Raya would react to my bringing Jason to live with us,” Bruce said as he set the remote on the coffee table. “She wanted to adopt the Drake boy after what happened with Crane.” 

“And the Whitly boy, sir.” 

“Yes.” Bruce blew out a soft breath. “She wanted to bring the Whitly boy here after his father’s arrest to give him a chance to heal from his traumas.” He made a face. “Perhaps I should have listened to her about him, Alfred.” 

“Miss Jessica would never have allowed it, Master Bruce.” 

“The boy might not have tried to take his own life, Alfred.”

Something that troubled Bruce immensely. To have decided life was no longer worth living... was unthinkable to him. _He’s Dick and Raya’s age_. _He should be enjoying his newfound freedom. Going out with friends. Dating._

“Perhaps not, sir.” Alfred picked up a tray with a silver carafe and cups. “You cannot absorb the guilt of that. You can only try to help the boy now so he doesn’t decide to do something so drastic again.” 

“He reminds me of Raya.” 

A bird with a broken wing. 

His Fenix rose from the ashes, though. 

Could Malcolm Whitly? 

“Things were so much simpler when Miss Raya and Master Dick were small, weren’t they, sir?”

The slight wistful note in the normally staid and proper butler's voice was not lost on Bruce. He, too, missed when Raya and Dick had been little and their problems ones he could fix without the need for the cape and cowl. 

"If I could rewind time and make them nine again, Alfred, I would."

"A pity you cannot, sir.” Alfred heaved a soft sigh as he moved towards the entryway. “You were quite a bit happier when Miss Raya and Master Richard were small."

_So were you, old friend,_ Bruce mused.

Alfred had become a surrogate mother, father, uncle, confidante, and mentor to the children he had brought into his cartoon circus world. Raya and Dick treated Alfred as a member of the family. 

_Even Jason looks to him for advice and comfort._

That was quite a feat given how difficult the first few months with the boy had been. 

"That's because they needed _Bruce Wayne_ more than they needed _Batman_ , Alfred."

If there was a melancholic note in his voice, Bruce chose to ignore it. He gave his children — and they were _his_ children — the best of him he could give. 

"They need _you_ more than they do _Batman_ ," Alfred corrected gently. "You are what's important to them, Master Bruce."

"Batman is the one who protects them."

Alfred gave a slow nod of his head. "Yes, that is true, sir. However, it is not Batman who soothes away their hurts or comforts them when they are sad. Nor," he added before Bruce could interject a denial, "is it Batman they come to when they need help or advice."

"I know, but—”

"It is _you_ they fight for, Master Bruce.” Alfred turned. “Not Batman.” 

He exited the living room after that parting comment. 

Bruce mulled over his words as he made his way to the secret door built into the bookcase along one wall of his study. 

_He does have a point_ , he realized as he pressed the button to call the elevator up from below. 

Not that he'd tell Alfred that.

There was already no living with him.

...

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Nix?” 

Fenix bit back the caustic reply that sprang to her lips. It wasn’t that she faulted Robin for asking it. No. He just had asked it ten times in the span of a half hour. As if the answer would suddenly become different from the one she kept giving him.

“Malcolm tried to kill himself.” A tremor rattled from her fingers into her hands. Traveled up her arms. Fenix busied herself by grabbing the grapnel line they brought with them. She didn’t need Robin noticing her hands shaking. He’d ask questions she didn’t want to take the time and answer. Not at that moment, anyway. “He took a knife and cut his wrists.” 

_Two shallow cuts to his left_ , she added as she turned to walk across the roof. _And one long, nasty one that ran from his right wrist almost to his elbow._

That Malcolm hadn’t severed his radial artery was either simple luck or the work of an overworked guardian angel. 

“He’s in a hospital,” Robin pointed out as he followed her. “He’s getting the help he needs.”

“I know he’s getting the help he needs.” Fenix set the grapnel line down. “That’s not why I want to check on him.”

“This isn’t Arkham. The staff here might take a different view on a masked vigilante sneaking in to see one of their patients.” 

“I don’t have much choice here, Robin.” Fenix perched atop the ledge and stared at the empty parking lot below. “It’s not like I can walk in and ask to see Malcolm in my civilian attire.”

“I’m sure B could find a way to get you in.”

“He probably could,” Fenix agreed with a slight nod. “But this way is easier.” 

“Rappelling down the side of a hospital is easier than B finding a way to get you in?” 

She caught his skeptical look from the corner of her eye. “I don’t think so, Nix.” 

“Robin.” She glanced at him. “Having you as my friend and partner is what keeps me from reaching the level Malcolm did.” 

His eyes blinked wide at her soft admission. “Nix...” 

“Malcolm has zero friends his age.”

“None as in none?” Robin’s brow touched the top of his mask. “As in _zero_?”

“Zero,” she confirmed as a chill wind blew over her clammy flesh. “And the girl he has been dating revealed she had only been dating him as part of an initiation into some private social club.” 

Something Fenix swore to find out about so she could dismantle it. Where Batman stood up against the monsters in the dark, she stood up for the bullied and abused. 

Both of which Malcolm Whitly was. 

“All right, I see why you‘re so emotionally invested in his well-being.” Robin’s breath steamed the cold air. “Doesn’t mean I don’t still have reservations about this, though. I do. You get caught in there, we’re gonna have a lot of explaining to do.” 

He didn’t need to add they’d be explaining her being in a locked ward to hospital security, police, and Malcolm’s mother. A woman who wielded the same power socially as Bruce Wayne. 

Fenix was not ashamed to admit Jessica Whitly scared the holy hell outta her.

“I’ll be careful.” She set a hand on his knee. “I promise.”

Robin nodded and reached for the grapnel line she’d use to make her way back up to the roof once she finished her nocturnal visit. His reservations lined his face and shone in the depths of his electric eyes. She didn’t have much choice, however. _Fenix_ could not walk into the hospital dressed in her body armor. Stripping everything off and going into the hospital dressed as _Raya Kean_ wasn't going to work, either. 

There was simply no logical explanation that they could come up with that would sufficiently explain why either of her personas had come to see Malcolm Whitly. Raya didn’t attend the same schools he did, share any extracurricular activities with him, and their families weren’t close, personal friends. None of her friends — or Fenix’s — were friends with him or anyone Malcolm knew. Way Fenix saw it, there was only one viable option open to her: rappel down to Malcolm’s floor and enter through the window. As contingency plans went, it was risky. There was every possibility hospital staff or security could see her. 

It was the best plan, though. 

Fenix glanced down at the empty street, calculated how many floors she needed to descend before throwing herself off the roof, keeping her cape tucked firmly against her body as she plunged headfirst through the night. Gravity seized her as she hurdled towards the ground, a line of unbreakable monofilament wire unspooling behind her. Malcolm had been moved to a private room at his mother’s orders. She counted off the floors as she plummeted past them.

_One, two_... She waited until just the right moment before triggering the braking mechanism attached to her belt. _Three_! 

She came to a halt outside a room on the twelfth floor. No light penetrated the blinds as she stealthily slid the window open and slipped inside. She made not a sound as she crossed to the figure restrained to the bed by thick, heavy cuffs. Her eyes landed on the fresh, white bandages covering both his arms. _Why_? she asked the boy laying there, restless even in repose. _Why did you try to take your life_? 

Hadn’t he realized he could’ve reached out to her? She hid a card in the middle of _The Odyssey_ with a number to a burner phone for when he was ready to begin his journey. Her brow knit. Maybe he hadn’t started to read _The Odyssey_? That was the only logical conclusion she could make for why Malcolm hadn’t reached out to her. Malcolm’s face, still blotchy from the beating Nico and his thugs gave him over a week ago, twisted. His breath shuddered out of him. His body jerked and his arms yanked at the restraints keeping him confined to the bed. 

_Pavus nocturnis_ , she realized, breath hitching as a low moan, like that of a wounded animal burst from him. Hers always centered around the final moments before her mother’s death. She wondered what Malcolm’s were about. He started to thrash and kick, whimpering, and straining against his restraints. Worried he’d rip open his stitches if she didn’t do something, Fenix set a gloved hand on Malcolm’s chest and leaned forward to whisper low, nonsensical words in his ear. 

As Bruce or Dick did whenever she couldn’t control her night terrors. 

Malcolm shouted, “No!” a second before he shot upright. 

The restraints held firm, keeping Malcolm from bolting out of the bed. Wild, frantic sounds came from him as he struggled against the bonds holding him fast. Fearful he’d cause himself serious harm if she didn’t get him to calm down, Fenix did the only thing she could think to do: she wound her arms tightly around him and reached deep for a lullaby the child in her continued to love despite her older self loathing it with every fiber of her being...

...

A familiar voice broke through the dull roar inside Malcolm’s head. 

One like velvet, soft and warm. 

_A siren’s voice._

A hand started to stroke his back in slow, soothing circles. A trickle of warmth melted away the ice balled in his belly. A ball of light formed in the middle of Malcolm’s chest and spread outward to the rest of his body. The shadow creatures hissed and snarled as they slid back into the dark depths of his fractured mind. 

Not that Malcolm cared. 

All that mattered to him was Fenix was _there_. 

How and why weren’t important to him. 

She had come. 

Providing him with solace and comfort when he needed it most. 

Proving she hadn’t abandoned him as he thought. 

Malcolm clung to her like ivy wrapped around an oak. He feared if he let go that the shadow creatures would come and drag him back to the movie theater they liked taking him too. 

“Don’t let go,” he whispered into her springy curls. “Please, don’t let go.”

“I won’t.” Her other hand cupped the back of his head. “I’ll hold on for as long as you need.”

_She’ll leave you as all the others have left you_ , one shadow creature simpered from within the safety of the white noise. _She’ll tire of you same as Vijay did_. 

As all the others had.

They were wrong. 

Fenix wouldn’t do that to him.

_Like Jennifer wouldn’t take to a party and announce to all and sundry what a pathetic freak you are?_

Fenix wasn’t like Jennifer Nash. 

He didn’t think so, anyway. 

Malcolm was forced to admit he couldn’t be rightly sure. He only met Fenix the one time. Still, he couldn’t believe that a girl who willingly interceded in a brutal assault could be like his ex-girlfriend. 

_You have no idea who the girl behind the mask is._

Again, the shadow creatures only spoke the bitter truth. Malcolm didn’t know who the girl behind the mask was. He refused to believe, though, Fenix and whoever she was outside her mask were anything like Jennifer. 

_She is stopping you from being free._

_You must make her leave._

On and on the shadow creatures went.

Malcolm battled them back with a strength of will he didn’t know he possessed. They retaliated by calling out the serpent that dwelled deep inside him. It slithered from its den and coiled around his heart, squeezing until he thought it’d explode out of his chest. A gasp burst from him before he could stop it. 

“It’s all right,” Fenix whispered as he shuddered in her arms. “You’re all right.” 

He was never all right. 

He’d never be all right. 

Malcolm didn’t tell her that, however. He figured she’d discover for herself sooner or later that he was broken beyond repair. 

_You need to get rid of her._

Malcolm didn’t want Fenix to go away. He wanted; needed her to stay. 

_Let’s see how long her heart will continue beating if we remove it from her chest_... the serpent whispered as it slithered around his neck. 

Malcolm rejected that suggestion. 

He wouldn’t allow these... _things_ inside him to harm Fenix. 

Never allow them to sink their fangs into her throat and taste her blood. 

Or tear open her flesh with their razor-sharp nails.

He’d put himself in a coma, first.

“You won’t what, Malcolm?” Fenix made to pull back but Malcolm clung to her like ivy on an oak. “Malcolm?” 

“Nothing.” His fingers fisted into the cape flowing down her back. “I... nothing.”

“Why didn’t you call me when things got so bad?” The fingers in his hair stilled. “I’d have come if you reached out to me.”

Call? Malcolm’s brow furrowed. But... “I don’t have your phone number.” 

Her sigh slid through his hair and along the back of his neck. “I left a number inside _The Odyssey_ for you to use,” she said quietly. “Didn’t you find it?” 

The aches of his body, of his heart were nothing compared to the guilt that swirled through him. The shadow creatures inside him laughed and jeered. He hadn’t bothered to look through the book to see if she left him any other messages. Instead, he believed her to have lied to him, like everyone in his life did.

“I didn’t look through it,” he finally admitted with more than a shadow of shame. “I thought you’d come to see me...”

“I tried.” Fenix made a sound that bordered suspiciously on a laugh. “Your nurse wouldn’t allow me past the desk.” 

“Why?” 

“Your mother left a list of people who could visit you with her.” She leaned back to smile at him. “I was not on that list.” 

“Yeah, well...” Footsteps outside his room silenced him. Malcolm glanced at the clock on the wall. “Bed check,” he whispered as Fenix stood. “If they...” 

“They won’t.” 

Malcolm expected her to go out the window. Instead, she ducked into the bathroom just as the handle on his door jiggled. A second later it opened, revealing a bulbous man in an orderly uniform.

“Who ya talkin’ too, kid?” Malcolm felt like he stared into the eyes of a hungry wolf. This man’s eyes were different from those of the men at the docks. Darker, sharper. Predatory. His blood began to pump, quickly, helplessly. “I heard ya talkin’ to someone in here.” 

“Wasn’t talking to anyone.” 

“Right.” The man lumbered towards the bed, a syringe in one meaty hand. “Time to take your medicine.” 

Malcolm eyed the syringe with equal amounts of dread and trepidation. 

“I don’t get any medicine at this time of night.” 

“Doc said you’re to get a mild sedative to help ya sleep.” 

“No!” Malcolm jerked as far out of reach as his restraints allowed. It wasn’t far enough. “No!” he pleaded. “I don’t want a sedative!”

He couldn’t be locked inside his own mind. 

Not again. 

“Tough,” the orderly growled, fleshy lips thinning into a cold, hard line. “You’re gettin’ one whether ya want it or not.”

He grabbed for Malcolm’s arm but something shiny winged through the air. It clipped the man in the back of the shoulder, causing him to frown. 

“What the...?” 

He dropped to the ground before he finished that statement. Malcolm stared down at the unconscious man, eyes wide, breathing ragged. 

“Malcolm, look at me.” Malcolm did as Fenix instructed. “You’re okay,” she told him. Soft, but firm. “You’re safe. He didn’t hurt you.” 

He wanted to, though. 

He knew it, and she knew it. 

Malcolm watched as Fenix zip-tied the man’s wrists and ankles together. The fact she used plastic restraints instead of handcuffs intrigued him. Before he could ask why she spoke into the gauntlet covering her left wrist. 

_“Robin, Matthew Berkeley just tried to have Malcolm killed.”_

There was an audible sigh from her wrist before another voice, deeper than his own responded. “ _Why am I not surprised?”_

Fenix’s lips twitched. “Because it’s Matthew Berkeley?” 

“ _Well_.” Humor, a speckle of it coated Robin’s voice. “ _Not the Joker for a change_.” 

“Small favors.” Fenix moved to the closet and retrieved his clothes, which she passed to Malcolm. “Get dressed,” she commanded in a tone eerily reminiscent of his mother’s. “We have to get you out of here.” 

“We need to call Gil. He—”

“No time, Malcolm.” 

As if to prove her point, footsteps pounded up the stairs just to the right of his room. Terrified patients screamed. Some shouted for help. Occasionally, there was the sound of a gunshot followed by silence. It only be a matter of minutes before they found his room. Something Fenix clearly understood because she moved to the door and pushed it quietly shut. Malcolm pulled on his clothes as she fished in a pouch of her utility belt. What she was looking for, Malcolm couldn’t say. He went to ask but got distracted as Robin climbed through the window. 

Seeing the Boy Wonder excited and unnerved him. Not because he found himself intimidated by the caped crusader — he was, he admitted it — but because it made the situation all the more painfully clear. 

“What’s your plan, Nix?” Robin asked as he joined her at the door. “How are we going to get Malcolm out of here with Berkeley’s men crawling all over the place?” 

“Gonna have to go out the way we came in.” She crouched to fix something to the wall next to the door handle. Malcolm thought it looked like a small battery pack but couldn’t be positive. Not from this angle. “Also have to hope they haven’t thought about stationing any men on the roof.” 

“This is us, remember?” 

“Yeah, I know.” She fixed a thin wire to the battery pack before she wrapped it around the door handle. “If we didn’t have bad luck, we’d have no luck at all.” 

“Right.” 

“This electrical charge should buy us enough time to get back to the Batplane.” 

Electrical charge? Batplane? Malcolm’s head spun at the overload of information. 

Fenix straightened and looked at Malcolm as the footsteps outside got closer. “Time to go.” 

Malcolm found himself in a quandary then. 

On one hand, he wanted to go with Robin and Fenix. 

On the other, he knew his mother and Gil wouldn’t approve of him leaving with two strangers. 

Even if those strangers were masked heroes from Gotham. 

Who happened to save his life not once, but twice now.

However, he had a feeling they’d approve less of his being shot and killed. 

So, he went. 


	9. Chapter 9

Much as Gil loved New York and its vast array of citizens, cultures, and class, so, too did he love the city of Gotham. He loved the vibrancy, character, and history the city possessed. Gotham was, after all, as uniquely diverse an American city as Brooklyn, Chicago, and San Francisco. All sorts of cultures and ethnicities lived in Gotham’s boroughs. Stores and restaurants appealed to all walks of life. Their theater district rivaled Broadway. The biggest bands played in their amphitheaters. Celebrities attended grand openings, charity events, even premiered their movies in the city’s movie houses.

Gotham had a pulse, a heartbeat, a soul as rich as places like Memphis and New Orleans. It had the glamour and pizzazz of Los Angeles, but also the old-world elegance and sophistication of Boston. The metamorphosis of the city as it shifted from day to night always mesmerized him. The cobblestone streets gleamed beneath a carnival of lights, nearly burst at the seams from the crowds traveling into or out of the city. Gotham managed to thrive despite nearly being overshadowed by a continuous flow of violence. The one thing Gil couldn’t deny was the city being a dark, brooding city constantly on the brink of destruction.

Of course, the reason for that could be found in the élite class of super villains who called the city home. They made chaos and anarchy their own brand of crime du jour. Every day-week-month brought the citizens of this city another trauma to add onto the decades of other ones. Every second-minute-hour added to their nightmares. When you had people with names like Two-Face, the Riddler, Penguin, Poison Ivy, and the Scarecrow constantly unleashing hell on your city, there was every reason to live in fear. There was little the people could do to stop these men and women using their city as their playground.

Beyond surviving, of course.

All they could do was pray that those who chose to serve and protect their city would keep it from falling into complete ruin. Even the most naïve Gothamites knew, they understood there were those in their city not looking for something logical, like money or power. They knew people were out there on their streets that money could not buy. They knew such people could not be beaten into submission, reasoned or negotiated with.

_And they know there are men like the Joker._

A man who simply wanted to watch their city, and all of them, burn.

Even the other degenerates and criminally insane feared the man with the bone-white face dancing around in some dark alleyway.

A madmanin royal purple merino and ivory silk always laughing.

_At them._

Worst of the worst, though, was the Joker. People from Boston to Honolulu had heard about the exploits of the Clown Prince of Crime. News networks all around the world interrupted broadcasts to report on the Joker’s antics. The arrest of the BTK serial killer, Dennis Rader didn’t receive as much air time as the Joker taking over Arkham Asylum earlier that year did.

Gotham was hot news because of its colorful array of characters.

Less reported were the shady deals and clandestine meetings going on in Gotham's seedy underbelly. Gil figured at least a dozen acts of violence were happening behind the closed doors in the Bristol District, as well as in the area of the city known simply as the Narrows.

Nightclubs that hid their sleazy trade in human flesh were just now opening their doors to their _exclusive_ clientele. 

Munition deals were going down at the docks, drugs were being sold to corporate fat cats and exhausted housewives in parking lots and bathrooms, and gang hits were being planned in clubhouses away from prying eyes.

Jim once told him the streets of Gotham were a chess board with the white pieces being the Gothamites protected by their silent guardian, and the black the criminals who wanted to knock over their Knight and take control.

Gil blew out a breath as a lone wind brought the stench of rotting garbage, fetid water, and smoke from a half dozen fires set the night before. He should have asked his favor while he had Jim on the phone. He could have avoided finding himself drug into a standoff with a guy hopped up on... _something_. This wasn’t the strangest situation he had found himself during his nearly two decades on the job. Beat cops tended to find themselves in all sorts of scenarios and encountering all sorts of individuals while working the streets. 

Again, this was Gotham. 

A place where anything and everything usually did happen. 

Like huge man-sized bats attacking subway trains for one.

Or man-eating plants popping up out of the cracks in the sidewalk for another. 

However, Gil had to admit that this ranked up there among the strangest incidents he had ever found himself part of. 

“Arrest me already!” A disheveled man standing in the middle of the street pleaded. “I beg you!” 

“Sir,” a woman in an EMS jacket said, tone soft, cajoling. “Please, calm down. We can help you. But you gotta calm down.” 

“Calm down!” The red-faced man barked a shrill laugh and tore at his sparse hair with bony fingers. “I’m about to turn into a werewolf!” 

“Son.” The man beside him spoke in a calm, soothing voice. Almost fatherly, Gil realized, impressed. “You aren’t going to turn into a werewolf. I promise.” 

“I will!” The man insisted, turning red-rimmed eyes to Jim. “I will turn into a werewolf! Soon as the moon is full! You’ll see!” 

“You won’t turn into a werewolf, son. I promise you that you won’t.” 

A frown pulled at the man’s befuddled brow. 

“But the man said...” 

“I know what the man said.” Jim’s tone remained that same soft and soothing one. Yet there was velvet steel underscoring it. “It’s a lie.” He aimed a look at Gil, conveying silently for him to lower his weapon. Gil obliged, deferring to the man’s years of experience and extensive knowledge of his streets and his people. “He lied to you, son. That’s what Mad Hatter does. He lies and manipulates.” 

The man’s frown deepened. “But...” 

“You’re gonna be all right.” Gordon slowly inched forward. “We just need to get you to the hospital so that you can be given the antidote.” 

“There is a way to fix me?” Desperation sizzled in the man’s hazel eyes. “You promise? There is a way to cure me before I turn into a werewolf?” 

“Yes, son, there is.” Jim reached out and set a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Batman delivered the antidote to Gotham General personally a little under an hour ago. You’ll be just fine once we get you there.”

The guy collapsed to his knees then, weeping softly, whimpering an occasional, “Thank God.” 

Gordon signaled to the paramedic waiting a few feet away before turning to walk back to Gil. 

“This is the fifth one tonight.” His brow furrowed. “Tenth in the last week.” 

“How do you do it?” Gil watched as they loaded the still sobbing man into the ambulance. “How do you deal with this on a nightly basis?”

“Some nights are harder than others.” Jim spoke with his usual candor as he removed his glasses. “Especially when that damn clown is running amuck.” 

“Why do you stay in Gotham?” Because Gil sure as hell wouldn’t. Not with all Jim contended with on a nightly basis. “You could transfer anywhere. Why stay here in Gotham?” 

“Because I’m needed here.” Gordon fished in his pocket for a rag he used to wipe his glasses with. “Gotham needs every good cop it has to protect her and its citizens from those who want to take her over.” He stuck the rag back in his pocket before clapping a hand to Gil’s shoulder. “Same as New York needs each and every good cop it has.” 

“We have our fair share of weirdos, crazies, and psychopaths in New York but nothing like you have here.”

Jim grunted softly. “Gotham is definitely full of some colorful characters.”

Gil turned to walk back to the coffeeshop he and Gordon had met at shortly before Wolfman showed up. “New York has _The Surgeon,_ ” he said as he pulled open the door and stepped inside. “Gotham has The Joker.”

Gil found himself wishing a patient transfer could happen. 

One that saw Martin Whitly tossed into a cell with Gotham’s Jester of Genocide. 

He had a feeling the man wouldn’t easily find a way to manipulate the situation to his advantage.

In fact, he suspected Doctor Whitly would no longer be a problem for any of them.

_Especially Malcolm._

“You fight the same gangs, cartels, triads, mafia, and corruption we do here in Gotham.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

Gordon slid into his seat and reached for his now tepid coffee. “You didn’t come here to help me with calming down people drugged by one of our resident freaks, though.” His eyes twinkled behind the lenses of his glasses. “You said you needed a favor when you called?” 

Gil chuckled softly as he reached for his own mug. “I did, yes.” 

“What is it?” 

“I was wondering if your niece would talk to the boy I told you about.” 

“Malcolm.”

“Yes.” 

“My girl has been looking for a way to speak with your boy since she found out he harmed himself.” Gordon set his mug back on the table with a sigh. “I’ve had my hands full trying to keep Raya from sneaking into your boy’s hospital room at Bellevue.” 

“Exactly the sort of excitement Malcolm needs right about now, actually,” Gil admitted with a soft chuckle. “Might bring him out of this state he’s in.”

Concern darkened Gordon’s face. “That bad?”

Gil nodded. “Worst episode he’s had in a while.” _Worst he’s had since he was thirteen_ , he added silently. “The truth is Malcolm could use someone his own age to talk with. Someone who understands what’s going on inside his head and won’t judge him for it.”

“He needs a friend in other words.”

“Friends.” Gil folded his hands around his mug to keep them from curling into fists. “That’s something Malcolm doesn’t have any of.” 

“Believe me.” A smile appeared through the thick whiskers covering Gordon’s mouth. “My girl will change all that.” 

Gil found himself smiling for the first time since entering this urban war-zone. “Thanks, Jim.” 

“Way I see it? Your boy will be just as good for Raya as she will be for him.”

“Doesn’t have a lot of friends, either?” 

“Raya has her group of friends.” Jim sat back in his seat. “But this time of year is hardest for her since her mother was murdered a few days before Christmas.”

“And her father never arrested for it.”

“No.” Gordon’s bitter frustration over failing to see the man responsible for traumatizing his niece rivaled Gil’s own at not seeing Martin Whitly locked away in a jail cell instead of a cushiony one at Claremont. “Money and a high-priced shyster of an attorney helped him avoid a prison sentence.”

“Was the attorney Everett Sterling by chance?”

Gordon blinked. “How’d you know?”

“He managed to get Malcolm’s father a cell in a psychiatric hospital instead of one in Rikers.”

Jim grunted. “He got Berkeley acquitted.”

“How?”

“Put a career criminal on the stand who said he killed Ellen after she came upon him while he was trying to break into the safe Berkeley had in his study.”

“A lie.”

Killers were full of them. Something Gil learned as he listened to lie after lie spill from the lips of the killers he arrested over the years. 

“Berkeley is good at those.” Jim reached into his pocket for his cellphone when it buzzed. “Gordon.” A frown furrowed his brow. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” 

“Dracula?” Gil joked before he took a swallow of his coffee. “Or Frankenstein this time?”

“Worse.” Gordon slid his phone back in his pocket. “Robin and Fenix have your boy on the roof of the GCPD.” 

“Malcolm?” Gil’s mug dropped from his nerveless fingers. “ _Malcolm’s_ here in Gotham?” 

A thousand reasons raced through Gil’s head as to why Malcolm was in Gotham and not Bellevue. 

_Where he should be._

He wasn’t prepared for what Gordon said next.

“Seems my girl’s father just tried to have your boy killed.” 

Gil’s mug dropped from his nerveless fingers. Coffee spilled across the table but he didn’t care. The only thing that resonated through his mind was that someone just tried to murder Malcolm.

“Why?” he demanded as Gordon righted the mug. “Why did he try and have Malcolm killed?”

“I don’t know,” Gordon mopped up the spilled coffee with napkins from the dispenser. “Thankfully, Robin and Fenix were there, and got him out before he could be hurt.” 

Gil might have questioned why two of Gotham’s masked heroes were at Bellevue if not for the fact that them being there was the only thing that prevented Malcolm from being killed. Something that he still couldn’t wrap his mind around.

“Why would your niece’s father try to have Malcolm murdered?”

“C’mon,” Gordon said after he finished mopping up coffee. “I’ll explain on the way.” 

Gil followed without a word.


	10. Chapter 10

_“Trust the night_.”

That's what Grandmaster Zou told him after he traveled high into the mountains of Tibet in order to train at the legendary sensei's knee. It was one more lesson he needed to learn if he was going to become the warrior of justice he decided to become after years of seeing the crime and corruption polluting Gotham. 

" _You need to let the night become your ally and friend_ ," the wizened grandmaster said during their first training session. “ _Make it your closest confidante, your greatest supporter. Then, and only then, Mister Wayne, will you become something those you wish to stop will fear_.” 

How Zou had known, indeed, how he even came to suspect what he planned on doing with all the knowledge and training he collected during the years he spent abroad, he didn’t know.

Somehow, though, the wizened sensei had. He learned much while training under Zou. The most important being how to trust the night. Zou’s sage advice also became the final piece of the puzzle he started assembling the night his parents were murdered. Batman became the shadow that lurked around every corner and in every alcove. He was the one the bad guys feared dropping down in front of them and stopping them before they could complete their plans. He haunted their dreams and every waking hour of their day. 

Batman was the seeker of justice, the defender of truth, the silent guardian of the persecuted, and oppressed. He served as the night's warrior, its enforcer, its special emissary. 

He’d continue doing so until he took his final breath. 

Gotham wouldn’t be without guardians, though.

No, he made sure the city would always have protectors there to watch over and protect it.

_Robin, Fenix, Oracle, Batwoman, they will make sure Gotham is safe in the likelihood of my death._

Batman forced his mind back to the present. His death was a long way off. The breakout at Blackgate happened less than an hour ago. That was where he needed to focus his attention.

Who escaped hadn’t been specified in any of the news reports. 

Batman had a feeling who it was, though. 

The same person it always was. 

_The Joker._

His fingers clenched the steering wheel, hard enough the hard plastic issued a stern protest. He relaxed his grip and stomped down on the gas pedal. The five cylinder engine roared as it chewed up the distance between the Bristol District and Blackgate. If the Clown Prince of Crime was behind whatever was happening, he needed to stop him, and quickly. Gotham couldn’t stand whatever bit of anarchy the Joker plotted during his latest stay in the supermax prison. Needing to find out more about the breakout, and whether or not it was the Joker who escaped, Batman tapped a button on the steering wheel and placed a call to the one person who would have any sort of information: Commissioner Gordon.

" _Was expecting your call_ ,” the veteran detective said after two rings. “ _Figured you heard the reports about the breakout and would decide to investigate.”_

"I'm on my way out to Blackgate now.” Short, simple. Acceptable given the situation. "Has there been any word on who escaped?"

_Please, tell me it’s not him_. Let it be Black Mask, Penguin, Two-Face, even Zsasz. He’d take Killer Croc or Mad Hatter over the Joker at this point. He could only deal with that level of chaos and mayhem so often before he needed a break from it.

Honking horns and squealing tires blocked out most of Gordon’s reply. The only word Batman made out was, “… _ruse.”_

“A ruse?” His eyes narrowed into slits. “By who?”

Gordon’s aggravated sigh warned Batman he was not going to like whoever it was behind this plot.

" _Berkeley_.”

“Berkeley arranged this?” Batman’s jaw clenched. “How?” And more importantly, “Why?”

_“Bullock is there now with Tate and Renaldo to figure out what the hell is going on._ ” More horns bleated. Tires squealed. Gordon was racing to the same place he was but from a different direction. _“I do know this was meant to distract us from what Berkeley really had planned for this evening_."

That didn’t please Batman any. Especially given Raya’s opinion her father used Martin Whitly to get rid of some unwanted wives. _And possibly his own_ , he thought as he turned a corner.

"Why would Berkeley orchestrate a fake prison breakout?"

" _I’m taking it Fenix nor Robin have contacted you?_ "

"No.” His eyebrows forked beneath his cowl. “Why?”

“ _Matthew Berkeley tried to have the Whitly boy killed at the same time the breakout at Blackgate occurred_.” 

Batman cursed silently. Raya warned him; urged him to move the Whitly boy to Gotham so they could protect him. 

He refused. 

Mostly because he didn’t want to separate the boy from his mother and younger sister. In hindsight, he should have listened. _Or at the least taken Raya’s warnings more seriously than I did_. 

“The boy is unharmed?” 

“ _Robin and Fenix were there at the hospital at the time of the attack, thankfully.”_ Gordon issued a few unsavory words beneath his breath. Batman found them suitable given the man they were about. “ _They got the boy out before Berkeley’s men could get to him_.” 

Just because he expected nothing less of the two didn’t mean he wasn’t relieved. 

“Where are they now?” 

“ _Waiting for us on top of the GCPD_.” 

It wasn’t a surprise they went there instead of heading straight for the cave. _Especially since._..

“The boy is with them.”

“ _Yes, he is_.”

Batman couldn’t fault their logic. The roof of the GCPD was the safest place for them to bring Malcolm Whitly.

Outside any of the bunkers he built around the city.

Those, along with the Batcave were only last resort options.

“I’ll meet you at the GCPD in twenty minutes.” 

“ _Roger that._ ” 

Batman disconnected the call and stepped on the accelerator. His hands gripped the wheel as he deliberated over what to do about Matthew Berkeley.

He didn’t have to think long about why Berkeley had gone after the Whitly boy. It tied back to Martin Whitly and his arrangement with Berkeley. 

_Whatever that might be._

For now, he needed to find a place to put the boy to make sure Berkeley couldn’t try and have him killed again. 

“Alfred," he spoke into the microphone built into his cowl. "Alfred, are you there?"

" _Of course, sir_ ," came the butler's cultured and refined voice. " _Is something the matter? You have only been gone ten minutes._ "

"I’m afraid things have taken a bit of an unexpected turn.”

“ _An unexpected turn in Gotham_?” Alfred drawled. “ _Imagine that_.”

Batman’s lips twitched. "Matthew Berkeley just tried to have Malcolm Whitly killed."

" _I take it the boy was not harmed_?” 

“Robin and Fenix got him out of Bellevue before Berkeley’s men could get to him.”

“ _It is rather fortuitous you had them keeping watch over the boy then._ ” 

The ghost of a smile flitted across Batman’s face.

“Yes, it was.” 

Not that he’d have been able to stop Raya from keeping her vigil. Pride filled him as he recalled her steadfast determination and refusal to abandon Malcolm Whitly while he was in a state of crisis. Her empathy and compassion, along with her deep-seeded distrust and hatred of her father served her, and Malcolm, well. 

“ _Master Bruce_?"

"What is it, Alfred?"

" _What about Master Whitly_?" A thin ribbon of worry coated the butler's tone. The only outward sign of how disturbed by this turn of event Alfred was. Not that he blamed him. It bothered him, too. “ _If Matthew Berkeley is willing to hire a team to kill the boy while he’s in hospital, will he not be willing to send them to his home_?”

“What do you suggest we do?”

Not that he didn’t have a good idea what Alfred would suggest.

_“Bring the boy here to Wayne Manor,”_ came the expected reply. _“He can heal from his injuries and we can keep an eye on him to make sure he_ _comes to no further harm._ ”

Alfred didn’t have to add from himself or anyone in Berkeley’s employ.

It was a given they’d make sure the boy didn’t try to harm himself again.

He should have agreed to it when Raya suggested it a week ago. _The boy might not have tried to commit suicide had I agreed to bring him to Wayne Manor._

"Prepare a room for him, Alfred.” 

“ _I had the room across from Master Richard readied this afternoon_.” Only a slight hint of smugness coated that refined tone. “ _In case it came to this, of course_.”

_Of course,_ Batman mused as he took the expressway.

He wouldn’t have expected anything less. 

Especially since it was Alfred who suggested he bring a traumatized girl to the Manor seven years ago. _And now that girl is protecting a boy who has suffered his own severe mental injuries_. 

The irony wasn’t lost upon him.

“I’ll have Gordon bring the boy to the Manor after we speak with Robin and Fenix.” 

“ _I shall be waiting, sir_.” 

He wouldn’t have expected anything less.

…

Gil managed to get a call to Jackie as he and Gordon sped towards the main GCPD building. 

“ _What_?” his wife breathed in his ear. “ _Is Malcolm okay? Where is he_?” 

“He’s fine,” Gil assured her as Gordon took a sharp turn. “He was brought here to Gotham. I’m on my way to him now.” 

“ _My God, Gil, what the hell is going on_?” 

“I don’t know.” Another sharp turn slammed him against the passenger door. Gil couldn’t fault Jim for his mad race across Gotham. Three teenagers, one the closest to his own as could be, waited atop a building for them. He’d have driven just as erratically if roles were reversed. “I’ll call you once I have more information.”

“ _You just get to Malcolm. He’s what’s important at the moment._ ” 

Jackie’s voice radiated the same anxiety and fear burning beneath Gil’s skin. He wished he could reach through the phone to give her a hug. Technology one day might provide them that option _._

“I’ll bring him home safe and sound.” 

“ _I know you will_.” Jackie blew out a breath. “ _Has Jessica been told about what happened_?” 

“No.” Gil grimaced as Gordon swerved through traffic. “I only found out myself ten minutes ago. I should call her...” 

It wasn’t a conversation he was especially looking forward to having. Jessica not taking the news well would be an understatement. 

“ _Wait until you know Malcolm wasn’t hurt before you call her_.”

_His wife_ , he mused as Jim blitzed through an intersection. _Always thinking logically_. Not that she wasn’t wrong. Calling Jessica now, without any real information to give her, would only create trouble. Worse, it’d bring her to Gotham and that was the last thing he — and Malcolm, Jim, and the city — needed. 

“I’ll call Jessica after I know Malcolm is fine.” 

“ _Just be careful, okay_?” 

A soft smile curved Gil’s lips. 

“I will be.”

Same words he always said before he left the house each day. It was a pledge Gil took as serious as his marriage vows. Cops understood the risks that came with the job. They signed up for them when they joined the academy. 

Spouses accepted there were dangers that came from marrying a cop. Same as there were for those married to firefighters or those in armed service. Whenever he picked up his gun, put on his badge, and left the house could be the last time. No matter how much a cop tried to reduce the risks while out in the field, bad things still happened. Many cops ended up getting shot for pulling someone over for something as simple as a broken taillight. Some, like his former partner, Ian, ended up stabbed while responding to a domestic call. 

Gil did everything he could to keep the promise he made to Jackie on the day they were married. In five years he had done a damn good of keeping his word. She had not received a knock on their front door notifying her he had been injured in the line of duty. The only time he landed in the hospital with an injury had been after he fell off the ladder while cleaning out the gutters. 

“ _Love you._ ” 

Gil’s anxiety and fear eased at those soft words. As they always did. Jackie was his rock. His stalwart supporter. His partner and best friend. “Love you, too,” he said before he hung up. 

“She took the news better than my ex-wife would have,” Jim said. 

“Jackie’s a rock.” Gil slid his phone into his coat pocket. “She’ll wait until Malcolm’s home safe before falling apart. His mother...” 

“Will scorch anything, everything, and everyone in her path?” 

Gil chuckled softly. “Putting it mildly.” 

Jim swerved around a delivery truck parked in the middle of the road. “Barbara was that way, too.” 

“Have you spoken with her since the divorce?” 

“We only talk about the kids.” Jim grunted softly. “Even then she doesn’t have a lot to say.”

Gil had heard that story many times before. Broken marriages was a common occurrence among cops. He could name ten officers in his department who were on their second marriage. Two who were on their third. Not many spouses could put up with the long hours, undercover assignments that often kept a cop out of reach for days or weeks at a time, and the alcoholism or drug addictions they tended to develop as a means of coping with the stress and trauma they tended to suffer. Most marriages ended for the reason Jim’s did: an affair with a fellow officer, confidential informant or suspect. 

In Jim’s case, it was his partner, a woman twelve years younger than him. The two ended the affair with Sarah moving away to New York and Jim confessing his adultery to his wife. Jim screeched to a halt in front of the GCPD. He and Gil exited the vehicle before it had a chance to stop sputtering and raced inside, desperate to reach the three waiting for them on the roof. 


	11. Chapter 11

To Malcolm, Gotham looked like New York City with its bustling business and shopping districts, clogged streets at midday, and variety of cultures around every corner. Ferries waited at the docks to take those people who didn’t want to brave the bridges, underground tunnels or trains to where they wanted to go. 

Theaters, movie houses, sports arenas all advertised the latest in entertainment. Bars served up drinks to the thirsty, restaurants offered fare from anywhere and everywhere, and clubs pulsed with the heart and soul of their city. There was just one major difference between the two cities as far as Malcolm could tell: the temperature. Gotham, at least to him, was ten degrees colder than New York.

Snow had fallen earlier that evening and left the cobblestone streets, the cars parked at curbs, stairways and roofs all covered in a fluffy white blanket. Windows and railings were frosted over with silvery webs of ice. Icicles glittered from eaves and fire escapes.

Much like New York, Gotham was bedecked in holiday finery. Colorful lights twinkled from balustrades, gleamed from rooftops, and trailed along walkways. Even the spruce and pine trees he saw out the window of the Batplane — and Malcolm still hadn’t managed to get over the fact he had flown here in the sleek, black plane — were draped in an array of festive lights. 

There was a sixty-foot tree in the middle of Gotham Square. The gold star perched atop the giant spruce winked at him as Robin circled the tree on his way to the police building. A plethora of lights — red and gold, silver and purple, blue and gold — twinkled cheerfully from their spindly home, illuminating the tiny balls and other ornaments in their glow.

However, Malcolm was aware Gotham was unlike New York, and most other cities in two major ways: Batman, and the league of extraordinary criminals he dealt with on a regular basis. Cities like New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Atlanta had their share of crime and corruption. They had their own sets of criminals. Some with names that represented who and what they were. What those cities didn’t have was a trio of costumed heroes aiding police in protecting their citizens from those individuals. 

_Would Batman have figured out my father was The Surgeon_?

Malcolm found himself wondering about that as he stared out over this strange and terrifying city he now found himself. Would there have been less victims if someone with the deductive skills of the Dark Knight had been working alongside the police? Malcolm had a feeling the answer was yes.

_Batman could figure out who_ _the Girl in the Box is._

That thought rolled through his mind as he looked over the bridges, the surrounding islands and boroughs, the expansive view of what Fenix told him was Gotham's lower east side. All appeared quiet in the city.

“For now,” Robin told him when he commented aloud how peaceful Gotham seemed. 

“For now?” Malcolm’s eyes blinked wide. “You mean, this isn’t how the city is most often?”

“Nope.” Robin shook his head. “It’s not.”

“You mean it’s…” Malcolm swallowed around the lump in his throat. “ _Worse_?”

Part of him couldn’t believe the slumbering city stretched out before him was anything like he read about on the internet.

The other part of him could absolutely see how it was exactly like what people wrote about.

“You gotta learn one thing about Gotham if you’re gonna be staying here a while,” Robin said in a soft but firm tone.

Malcolm hesitantly asked, “What?”

The hero flashed him a lopsided grin. “You gotta learn that when this city’s silent is when things are _really_ about to hit the fan.”

“Really?” An echoing smile curved Malcolm’s lips. “Like what?” 

“Most often it’s just some creeps starting trouble over turf.” Robin’s breath fogged the air. “But sometimes…”

“It’s the Joker,” Fenix finished for him. “It’s almost always that pasty-faced freak.”

“House odds are always in favor of the Joker,” Robin added. “I mean if there’s trouble in Gotham… safe bet he’s behind it.” 

“Or knows who is.”

“Which always upsets him.”

“Nobody’s allowed to have Batman’s undivided attention but for him.” Fenix turned to walk back from where the opposite side of the roof. “Hence why he held a group of people hostage on a ferry and threatened to blow them up if Batman didn’t meet him at the Royal Hotel for their anniversary.”

“Well, it _is_ almost Christmas, Nix.” A breeze carried the scent of pine and burning wood. Scents Malcolm found familiar, comforting. He breathed deep as Robin shook the snow from his hair. “Even the Joker gets sentimental about things like anniversaries and holidays.”

“Don’t need to remind me, bird boy.” Fenix’s face remained composed behind her mask but a wealth of dark emotions Malcolm understood all too well burned in her eyes. “I’m well aware of how sentimental the Clown Prince of Crime gets.” 

“Well, he did send you that snow globe last year for Christmas.”

“You mean the snow glove with the likeness of him standing on top of a burning Gotham in a Santa suit while holding a bomb?”

Robin frowned. “I thought he was holding a bomb in the statue he sent?”

“No, the snow globe.” A faint smile curved her lips. “The statue was for my birthday and had the flower in his lapel filled with Joker Venom that sprayed whoever got close to it.”

“Ah, right.”

Malcolm’s head spun. How they could so casually discuss snow globe bombs and statues that sprayed something they called _Joker Venom_ simply astounded him.

“You find this…?” he managed as a chill wind slid down the back of his neck.

“Normal?” Robin said.

“Yes.”

Fenix made a small sound deep in her throat as she set a hand on the metal emblem fixed to the searchlight standing a few feet from him. If he hadn’t been looking he’d have missed the slight tremor that wracked her hand. Whether it was a psychogenic tremor like his or not, he didn’t know.

Not that he’d ask her about it. 

It wasn’t his place nor any of his business. He could imagine a lot of it had to do with the stress that came from dealing with the criminal elite she, along with the boy perched on the ledge of the police building, helped their mentor to stop. 

“To you this is not normal.” Robin folded his arms across his chest. “For us, though, it us.”

“Why?” Malcolm just couldn’t understand that. “Why do you think this is normal?”

“Because the abnormal is normal in Gotham.”

Malcolm stared back out at the slumbering city. Most people didn't even know a seedy underground existed. Gotham not only was aware of their dark-side, they had a trio of heroes to fight it.

“At least Calendar Man didn’t decide to do another Advent Calendar this year…” Robin made a small face. “That was worse than the Riddler’s 25-Days of Riddles Challenge.”

Fenix harrumphed. “I swear the bad guys trade off holidays for the sheer fun of it.”

“It certainly seems like it,” Robin agreed with a grimace. “Let’s hope they never manage to form a working partnership.”

“Is the Joker the worst you’ve ever faced?” Embarrassed color filled Malcolm’s cheeks. “Sorry, I…”

“No, the Joker’s not the worst I have ever faced.”

“Pretty close, though,” came from Robin. “Gotta admit that, Nix.”

“The Joker employs cheap theatrics to create the majority of his thrills.” Fenix’s fingers curled on the metal beneath her palm. As if she drew comfort and calm from it. Why wouldn’t she find strength in that symbol? That ominous bat-winged shape the spotlight projected onto the night sky was not only a reminder to her of her mentor but it was also a signal for the rest of Gotham that they had someone looking out for them. “He prefers orchestrating chaos to simple murder.”

“Though he’s not above murder to make his point.”

“Or simply for a laugh.” Her brow furrowed above her mask. “His real power, though, comes from his unpredictability and volatility.”

“You’re not afraid of him?” Malcolm had never met the Joker but he sure as hell was terrified of him. “Why?”

“You don’t fear a clown when you’ve met Satan.”

“Satan?” His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “You’ve met the _devil_?” Not that Malcolm actually believed such a creature existed. Religion wasn’t something his mother or father had been especially keen on. Jackie took him to church a few times when he was younger. He stopped going after a while because of the looks he received from certain members of the congregation. “As in the _actual_ devil?”

“Not one with horns and a tail, no.”

Robin got up and placed a hand on Fenix’s shoulder. Malcolm found himself envious of their bond. He wished he could have the comfort and ease they had with each other.

“The man I speak of is a human man.” Fenix reached up to cover Robin’s hand with her own. “One that embodies the epitome of evil.”

Curiosity swirled through Malcolm as to who this man could be. He didn’t ask, though. It was clearly not a topic either wanted to delve into.

“Fold that blanket more tightly around you,” Fenix instructed as a sharp wind left him shuddering. “The temperature’s falling now and fast.”

Malcolm did as she instructed while stifling a yawn. Depending on how one wanted to look at the time, it was either very late, or extremely early. 

Not that time meant much to him. He tended to go days without sleep. How his two companions managed on little to no sleep was beyond him. He was about to ask when the access door burst open and a man with a thick swatch of white hair adorning his head and a matching goatee charged out. Malcolm scrambled to his feet when he saw Gil a few steps behind him.

“Gil!”

“Kid.” Gil folded him into a tight hug and released a shaky breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Malcolm assured him as he burrowed into Gil’s warmth. “Robin and Fenix saved me.”

“Can someone tell me what in the Sam Hill happened?” the man, whom Malcolm supposed was Jim Gordon, demanded. “Berkeley sent men to Bellevue? To do what exactly?”

“Kill Malcolm.”

Gordon glanced sharply at the duo. “You’re positive?” 

“Yes.” Fenix’s mouth compressed into a thin, hard line. “He hired Nicholas DeCosta to sneak into the ward and deliver either a dose of curare or oleandrin.”

“You don’t know which poison he used?”

“We didn’t have time to upload a sample and run it.” Robin’s expression was grim. “DeCosta triggered a signal when he fell because the other men Berkeley hired were making their way upstairs within seconds of Fenix taking him down.”

“I’ll confirm which poison he used once I return to the Cave.” Fenix’s lips twitched as the commissioner bit out a few choice words. “DeCosta is known for using darts laced with curare, though, so that’s what I expect to find.”

“The oleander flower has become one of the most accessible poisons in the world,” Gordon said, mustache twitching. “Most hitmen have started using it because it’s virtually untraceable.”

“DeCosta is a favorite of tried and true methods.” Fenix folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head to the side. “Matthew Berkeley, though…”

“Would absolutely insist on him using something untraceable to avoid the suspicion falling back on him.”

“Why?” Gil demanded as he took a step back from Malcolm. “Why does this man, Berkeley, want to kill Malcolm? What’s his reason?”

Robin and Fenix shared a look with Gordon. One that spoke volumes to Malcolm. _They know why this man sent those men to kill me_ , he realized, breath catching. They were spared from revealing what they knew as a dark figure shot up over the ledge of the roof. The shadow he cast on the ground was in the shape of a bat. Excitement and apprehension coursed through Malcolm at seeing the legendary Dark Knight up close and personal.

That fearsome cowl with its pointed ears proved as intimidating as the helm of a medieval knight.

His black cape billowed behind him, reminding Malcolm of the leathery wings of a bat.

The irony of his thought wasn’t lost on him.

Batman’s thunderous look also said he wasn’t pleased about the events of the evening.

A sentiment he shared with Gordon and Gil who wore similar expressions on their own faces.

"Oh, I know that look.” Fenix’s mouth twisted into a mew of distaste as she stared at her mentor. "That's the _you’re-gonna-be-grounded-for-the-next-month-for-not-running-this-by-me_ look."

Gordon aimed a stern look at her. "I'd be quiet or it could be longer than a month."

"Don’t give him any ideas." Her sigh clung to the air for several seconds before slowly dissipating. "I only barely got off from my last grounding when this happened."

“Being grounded won't be so bad, Nix." Robin placed an arm around her shoulders and flashed her a cheeky grin. "It’ll give you loads of time to investigate Berkeley and why he wants to kill Malcolm.”

"Don't be thinking you're outta the hot seat here, bird boy.” Fenix sent him a long look from the corner of her eye. Malcolm recognized that smug feminine look. He had seen it on his mother’s face loads of time. Robin was in for it. “You’re gonna be helping me research why Berkeley wants Malcolm dead from the safety of that cave.”

“Oh?” One dark brow arched. "And why am I gonna be helping you research?"

"You assisted her in tonight’s plan,” came Batman’s reply. “You can join her in the punishment.”

“Aw, geez,” Robin complained. “It’s not like we had much choice in what to do.”

“Being grounded won't be so bad, buzzard brains.” Fenix parroted Robin’s earlier words back at him. Something the Boy Wonder didn’t appreciate from the scowl he sent her. “It’ll give you loads of time to prepare for that Batman midterm you’ve been neglecting studying for.”

“Nix?” His scowl became a glare. “Do me a favor, will ya?”

“What’s that, Robin?”

“Button your beak.”

“All right, you two,” Gordon interceded before a full scale argument could erupt between the two. “Let’s focus here. Temperatures are dropping and it’s late.” 

“Sorry, Commissioner,” the pair said while shooting looks at each other that promised things were far from settled between them.

“You brought Malcolm to Gotham.” A hint of humor underscored Gil’s serious tone. “Why?”

“He’s not safe in New York.” Fenix turned to him after giving Robin one more dirty look. “Matthew Berkeley has more men like Nicholas DeCosta he can send after him.”

“He can stay with me and my wife until this gets sorted out.”

“First place he’d send someone,” Batman said.

“I can have around the clock…”

“Berkeley can easily get one of his men assigned to that detail.” Gordon ran a hand over the back of his neck. “He’s done it before.” 

Gil bit out a curse. “What do we then?” He looked between Gordon and the man standing behind Robin and Fenix. “Where do we take Malcolm that he’ll be safe?”

“Wayne Manor.”

Five pairs of eyes all turned to Fenix. Three in surprise, one in resignation, and one, Robin’s, in amusement.

“Wayne Manor?” he drawled. “Really, Nix?”

Fenix harrumphed. “Can you think of anywhere else that’s safe at this point, bird boy?”

“No, I can’t.” Robin’s sigh clung to the cold air. “Unfortunately, there is no place safer for Malcolm at this moment.”

“Okay then.”

_And that_ , Malcolm figured as a cold wind chilled him, _is that_.


	12. Chapter 12

Gil watched the trio of costumed heroes with Gordon as he stood next to Malcolm by the rear access door. He couldn’t hear what was being said but the slightly abashed looks on the faces of Robin and Fenix spoke volumes. _He knows who they are beneath those masks_ , he realized. More than that, he knew and kept the secret close to his vest because what they did, the purpose they served, far outweighed his knowledge of their real identities. Gil had a few ideas himself about who the two under those masks were. 

Long as they could protect Malcolm from Matthew Berkeley? 

That’s all they’d remain.

“Mother isn’t going to be happy about this.” Malcolm shifted beside him. “She’s going to be very angry we didn’t talk with her before deciding I was going to stay here in Gotham.” 

Much as Gil wanted to assure him Jessica would understand their need for acting as quickly as they did, he couldn’t. Jessica would be upset about nobody consulting her on what to do with her son. 

“You let me worry about your mother.” Gil cupped the back of Malcolm’s neck and gently squeezed. “You focus on letting your cuts heal.” 

_And on making friends_ , he added silently. Something Malcolm needed, desperately.

“It’ll only be for a few days, right?” The kid lifted worried eyes to his. “Then I can come and stay with you and Jackie? Like we planned?” 

Gil wished he could alleviate Malcolm’s concerns but not knowing what they were dealing with made that difficult. 

“Let’s take this one day at a time,” he settled on instead. “Batman is going to look into why Matthew Berkeley tried to have you killed and put a stop to him.” 

He didn’t add how he’d also be helping Gordon’s niece with figuring out the connection between Matthew Berkeley and Martin Whitly. The kid had enough worries without adding his father to them. 

“What about my medications? Clothes?” Malcolm lowered his gaze to the ground before whispering, “My restraints?” 

“We have your medications,” Fenix said as she joined them. “Batman reached out to an associate of his, Doctor Leslie Thompkins. She will have an emergency supply of your medications sent to Wayne Manor. They’ll likely be there by the time you get there, in fact.”

“And I will bring your medicine with me with your clothes.” Gil rubbed the kid’s neck in soothing circles. “Okay?”

“I need my restraints.” The fingers clamped around the blanket the kid wore like a cape trembled from more than cold. “I have to have my restraints. They keep people safe. I can’t sleep without them.” His words started to trip over themselves as Malcolm’s anxiety skyrocketed. “We have to...”

“Breathe.” Fenix drew in a deep breath and released it, slowly. “Just breathe, Malcolm.” 

“Can’t,” the kid was panting now, every breath painful for Gil to hear. “Chest... tight.” 

“Breathe.” Gil rubbed Malcolm’s upper back in slow, soothing circles to try and help him relax. “Remember what your therapist told you.”

Not that the kid did. 

In fact, telling him to relax seemed to have the opposite effect.

“What did I write on the inside cover of _The Odyssey_?” 

_So, she’s who gave him the book._ Gil wasn’t surprised. It was a fitting book, really. One that explored things like identity, memory and grief, heroes and villains, choices and consequences, love and loyalty, friendship, and justice.

All things Malcolm struggled with.

“‘Only our journey is written, not our destination’,” Malcolm promptly repeated around each gasp. “‘When you’re ready to begin yours, I will be waiting’.”

“We can’t begin that journey if you quit breathing.” A million secrets lurked in those catlike eyes fixed on Malcolm’s. There was more to this girl than met the eye. Fenix appeared as simple as that five hundred piece puzzle Jackie bought the kid last Christmas. Gil suspected she was more like a three-dimensional one. “Now, can we?” 

“N-no.”

“Then breathe.” Again, she drew in a breath, let it out. “In, out. Until the anxiety passes.”

“My restraints...” 

“Will be figured out,” she assured him. “We will pass the information onto Mr. Wayne and he will figure out what to do.”

“He’ll think I’m a freak.” 

Fury raged inside Gil, hot, roiling, encompassing. If he could arrest all the people who made Malcolm feel he was a freak, he would. He couldn’t, though. All he could do was help comfort him. 

Fenix, on the other hand? 

Well, she had a different approach to dealing with the kid’s statement.

“No.” Tempered steel coated that single world. “He won’t.” 

Malcolm peeked at her from between the strands of hair covering his face. “He won’t?” 

“No.” She gentled her tone. “If anyone will understand the need for restraints, it’s Bruce Wayne. He’s gone through more than his share of night terrors with his wards.” 

“His wards?” 

She nodded. “Dick Grayson and Jason Todd.” She waved a hand back at Gordon. “And he shares custody of Commissioner Gordon’s niece, Raya.” 

_Aha_ , Gil thought, suppressing a smile. _There’s the final piece of the puzzle I needed_. 

Not that it mattered in the end. 

Knowing _Raya Kean_ served Gotham as _Fenix_? 

Was wrapped up in the importance of the fact. 

And the fact was, she was protecting Malcolm. 

The irony of a sixteen year old protecting another was not lost on Gil.

This was Gotham, however.

A city where children became masked vigilantes to stop the monsters in the dark.

_Especially when those monsters are their fathers,_ he thought as the kid offered her a shaky smile.

...

The hand that reached for the cellphone vibrating on the corner of the desk was plump, tanned to a golden hue, the nails neatly clipped and buffed to a dull sheen. A diamond the size of a robin's egg adorned the pinky on his right hand. No pinky graced the left. A gift from the daughter his late wife cursed him with. It was a reminder that within the face of an angel lurked a demon. One he planned to slay before the year was through.

"Berkeley."

" _Robin and Fenix ferreted the Whitly boy outta the hospital before we had a chance to get him_."

Silence was Matthew Berkeley’s response to that bit of disappointing information.

It was, after all, a more useful tactic than the hundreds of insults and threats he could hurl at the man for having failed to complete his mission. 

_Again_. 

Matthew also suspected threats would have about as much effect on a man like Victor Skrog as they would on Slade Wilson. Wilson had been his first choice for this particular assignment but the mercenary was _unavoidably detained_ and unavailable to take the job. Deadshot had been another regrettably unavailable option. Matthew hired Skrog because of his reputation for being a no-nonsense, balls of steel, and tough as they come soldier. His stellar service record and successful mission rate made him ideal for what Berkeley wanted.

So he thought, anyway.

"I see." Matthew took a puff from his cigar, held the smoke in, then slowly released it. "How many times now have you been unable to grab the boy?”

" _The third time_.” 

"The third time.” Berkeley made a soft _tsking_ sound. "For a man of your reputation and skill, I must say this inability to grab one slip of a boy is...” he let his voice trail off. Another tactic Matthew found quite effective in making his displeasure clear. "Well, I must say it‘s extremely disappointing.” 

“ _We did our best to get the boy before he returned home for winter vacation but the detective picked him up a day earlier than expected_.”

“Ah, yes, Detective Gil Arroyo.” As big a thorn in his side as Jim Gordon. “Didn’t I give you express permission to get rid of the detective should he become a nuisance?”

“ _Getting rid of a police officer isn’t as easy as you think it is._ ”

Matthew was forced to agree. How many times had he tried to rid himself of Gordon? Wayne? 

_Batman_. 

His fingers clutched the phone to his ear as he recalled all the times in the last seven years that the Dark Knight foiled his plans. _Not anymore, though_. Batman nor his winged brats would prevent him from taking away from Martin Whitly the one thing the good doctor couldn’t bear to part with: his son, Malcolm. 

“I paid you a lot of money to grab the boy and so far you have failed to do so. In fact…” another pause. “You have failed to deliver on any of the promises you made to me.”

" _We will fulfill our part of the bargain_ ," Victor growled to Matthew’s amusement. " _It‘s just gonna take longer than expected_.” 

“How long?” 

“ _I can’t give you a timeframe_.” 

“How hard can it be to grab one boy and bring him to me?” Matthew’s teeth gnashed. “He is not one of those twerps that parades around with Batman!” 

“ _He’s not, no_ ,” Victor agreed. “ _You didn’t tell us Batman's protégés were keeping a watch over him, though. They foiled our attempt_."

"I wasn’t aware Batman’s winged brats were keeping watch over the boy.” That vexed him greatly. "Well, now that you know, you can plan accordingly. Do you know where they took him?"

" _My intel says Gotham_."

“The boy is here in Gotham?” 

“ _My man inside the GCPD says Gordon and Arroyo walked the boy out of the GCPD ten minutes ago_.”

“Where were they taking him?”

“ _Wayne Manor_.”

“Are they now?” Matthew stared at the burning tip of his cigar. “Well, now, that’s interesting.”

Very interesting, in fact. 

Gordon was taking the Whitly boy to Wayne Manor because his daughter prevailed upon Wayne to take him in.

_As he did her seven years ago._ Matthew turned his chair so he could watch the first streaks of scarlet stretch across the sky. The hue reminded him of blood. 

Ellen's blood. 

A scene played out on the glass, reminding Matthew about why he wanted revenge on Martin Whitly.

_The second shot spun Ellen back into the small table sitting in the middle of the grand foyer. The table, an antique his great-grandmother commissioned on her honeymoon in France tilted, upsetting the vase of roses — red roses — so they rained down on her as she fell._

_Ellen crawled towards the stairs, leaving a bloody trail in her wake._

_“Mama!”_

_His ten year old daughter flew down the stairs and dropped to her knees beside his whore bitch of a wife with a tiny whimper. Ellen tried to pull herself towards the stairs, again, but the irksome brat she cursed him with pushed her back down, murmured soothing, nonsensical words to her._ _Ellen’s fingers fisted in his daughter’s dress. She pulled herself up enough to breathe out one word:_ “ _Run_..."

Matthew reached up to trace the ridged flesh by his right eye. A gift from the child Ellen cursed him with. _This is rather fortuitous news_ , he realized as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. He could have his revenge on Wayne, Gordon, and Whitly all in one go. Plus, he’d finally be rid of that troublesome brat of his. 

_Well, it seems like this will be a Happy Christmas, after all..._

"It would appear to me,” he said slowly, lips curling, “that there’s only one solution for how to fix this situation."

" _And what’s that_?"

"Why," Berkeley crooned. "You and your men are going to go to Wayne Manor and kidnap the Whitly boy and my daughter.” 

“ _And if Batman or his protégés interfere_?” 

“Kill them.” 

Silence was Victor’s response. 

Not that Matthew cared as he ended the call. 

The Whitly boy and his daughter being brought to him was all that mattered. 

“Find me Askalov,” he said to the man standing silent next to his office door. “Tell him I have a special assignment for him.” 

The door opening and closing was the only confirmation he received about his order being carried out. 

Not that Matthew required any other form of acknowledgement. 

Obedience, like silence, was expected from those in his employ. 

Those who worked for him learned early there was consequences for lack of compliance. 

Those who didn’t? 

Well, they met the same fate as his darling Ellen. 

As the useless daughter she cursed him with soon would. 

A smile, the first in weeks curved his lips. 

He was going to have a Happy Christmas, indeed. 


	13. Chapter 13

Malcolm stared out the car window as Commissioner Gordon drove through the mostly empty streets. Given the snow that started falling right as they left the GCPD and the lateness of the hour, he could understand why the streets were vacant. Nobody in their right mind would be out in this weather. 

_Well_ , he amended as Gordon guided his car up the Sycamore Street on-ramp and out onto the freeway. _Nobody in their right mind was almost killed by men hired by a guy I’ve never heard of_. 

Why Matthew Berkeley wanted him dead made no sense. He was a nobody. A sixteen year old high school student. How much trouble could he have caused this man that he’d want him dead? He didn’t realize he asked that question aloud until Gil shifted beside him. 

“That’s not an easy question to answer.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s more questions than answers,” Gil admitted, eyes meeting Gordon’s in the rearview mirror. “All we know right now is your father and Matthew Berkeley knew each other.” 

“Knew each other?” Malcolm’s brow knit. “Meaning they are part of the same social circle?”

“And may have been in business with each other.”

“Business?” Malcolm’s stomach clenched. “What kind of business?” 

Gil hesitated, cleared his throat.

“We believe Martin Whitly might have murdered people for Matthew Berkeley.” 

“He... what?” Malcolm’s heart dropped into his stomach. Bubbled and burned in the miasma slowly pushing its way towards the top. “How many?”

Even as he asked, he was sure he didn’t want the answer.

“We don’t know how many there are.” Gil’s face pinched. “Fenix has identified six connected to your father and Berkeley.” His sigh skittered along Malcolm’s already frayed nerves. “Her and Robin say there are more.”

“More?”

How many?

Not that he wanted to know the answer.

“Many more.” Passing lights illuminated the grim expression on Gil’s face. “Possibly half a dozen more than a dozen others.”

_None of them connected to the original twenty-three_ , Malcolm realized, hand spasming atop his thigh.

Images assaulted him as Gordon sped down the highway towards a house full of strangers. 

His younger self ran through dark woods. 

Clutched a bloody knife in one hand. 

The trunk in his father’s hobby room. 

A girl whose face he didn’t recognize inside it when the lid opened.

Restless energy sizzled through Malcolm, pulsed in the fingers curled atop his knees. Panic was an icy poker in his stomach. Sweat chilled his overheated skin. He ordered himself to breathe, slow and steady, but the air wheezed in his lungs, clogged there until he was gulping for it. Nerves raw from the events of the evening tattered. A tremor started at the tips of his fingers and rocketed all the way up to his elbows. Malcolm didn’t know how long it’d take to reach Wayne Manor but he hoped it’d be before he thoroughly humiliated himself by having a second panic attack.

Thankfully, Gil’s hand settled comfortably on the back of his neck, rubbing in slow, soothing circles. The comfort and support he needed. 

The commissioner hit a bump in the road. The bounce slapped his wrists against his legs. White hot pain left him gasping. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and prayed he hadn’t finally tore his stitches. They had been pulled to the limit while escaping from the hospital. 

_Via the window_. 

Tonight had been a number of firsts for Malcolm. Some more thrilling than others. 

“Will I see Fenix and Robin again?” he asked the Commissioner once his breathing returned to normal. “And Batman?”

Someone Malcolm never anticipated meeting in his entire life. Many would scoff and say the Dark Knight wasn't real. He, along with his protégés, were simply figments of some writer's imagination. Images drawn by some artist to go along with the idea the writer had for a bunch of superheroes. Characters meant to provide people with a bit of entertainment and fun.

Only, Batman wasn’t something simply conjured up in the minds of Bob Kane and Bill Finger. 

No, he was flesh, blood, and bone. A real and tangible entity Malcolm could have reached out and touched if he dared.

“Oh.” Gordon‘s eyes twinkled in the rearview mirror. “I have a feeling you will be seeing a great deal of Fenix and Robin the next few days.” 

“They’re really grounded then?” Malcolm’s belly cramped from a combination of guilt and regret. “That wasn’t just a joke?”

“No, son, they’re not grounded.” A smile appeared through the thick white bristles covering Gordon’s mouth. “They’re going to be reassigned is all.” 

“Reassigned?” That didn’t sound so bad. “To what?”

“They’ll be digging into Berkeley’s bank and phone records I imagine.” 

Malcolm made a face. “That sounds boring and tedious.”

“What have I told you about police work?” Gil squeezed his neck gently. “It’s about patience.”

“Still sounds boring and tedious.” 

Gordon chuckled softly. “You’re right, son. It’s quite boring and tedious.” He winked at him in the rearview mirror. “Perfect for keeping two teenagers busy, and out of trouble, though.” 

Malcolm nodded and settled back in his seat. The commissioner exited at the Bristol offramp and proceeded along a country lane. Most of the trees that lined the road had a thick blanket of snow weighing down their branches. Every half mile or so, they drove past a cluster of buildings that included a big house that reminded Malcolm of those in the Hampton’s. _Mother would approve_ , was Malcolm’s only thought as Gordon drove through a set of iron gates and past an empty guardhouse. 

He continued along a curved driveway to where a mansion towered over a sea of snow-covered lawn. Wayne Manor might have been imposing if not for the white lights draped across its roof, wrapped around its stately columns, and strung from the limb of every tree surrounding the property. Every light had been turned on within the huge fortress and cast dancing shadows on the driveway. It was a whimsical, fantastical illusion that stood in stark contrast to the ever-present shroud Malcolm internally sensed hung over the house. He stepped from the car after Gordon parked behind a Rolls-Royce and stood staring up at the huge manor in stupefied awe.

A gentleman with a slightly receding hairline, a thin mustache, and pale eyes that shimmered with warmth and a plethora of secrets stood on the stoop waiting for them. Malcolm assumed he was Bruce Wayne's butler, Alfred Pennyworth.

"Good evening, Commissioner," he greeted in a politely dignified tone. “Terrible business tonight.” Those kind eyes shifted to Malcolm. “May I assume you are Master Whitly?” 

“He is,” Gordon replied as he headed up the walk. “And the man with him is Detective Arroyo.” 

Alfred inclined his head. “A pleasure despite the grim circumstances that surround our meeting, Detective.”

“Agreed.” A tired smile curved Gil’s lips. “Thank you for allowing Malcolm to stay here while we figure out what is going on.” 

“It is our pleasure, I assure you.” He stepped to the side and indicated for them to enter the mansion. “Please, come inside. Master Bruce shall be home shortly.” 

“Thank you, but I need to get back to New York.” Gil set a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “I need to inform his mother about what is going on and retrieve some of his things.” 

“You’re leaving?” Malcolm shot a panicked look over his shoulder at him. “But...”

“Your mother has no idea what happened tonight.” Gil turned him to face him. “I need to go and explain it to her before she finds out about it on the morning news.” 

Gil didn’t need to add, _and has a meltdown over it_. 

Malcolm had witnessed enough of his mother’s tirades to understand why Gil wanted to get to her and explain before she erupted into one. Just because he did, though, didn’t mean he was happy about it. Especially since he was the one being left in the care of virtual strangers.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” _Please_ , he silently begged. “Just until Mister Wayne returns home?”

“You’ll be fine, kid.” Gil cupped the back of his neck and smiled reassuringly at him. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Okay?”

Realizing he had no other choice, Malcolm nodded, and quietly said, “Okay.” 

Gil squeezed his neck once more before leaving him standing in the middle of a foyer that was polished marble, sparkling crystal, gleaming wood, and dominated by a silver fountain spewing frothy torrents of water into its glittering basin. 

…

Ten minutes after leaving Batman at the GCPD, the Batwing plunged into the dark tunnel that led to the subterranean caverns running beneath Wayne Manor. At the controls, and feeling rather pleased with how the events of the night played out, Robin tapped the comm to alert Alfred they were home.

_“_ Alfred, we made it back. Has Commissioner Gordon arrived with Malcolm yet?” 

“ _Not yet, Master Richard_ ,” the butler replied. “ _You and Miss Raya should have plenty of time to change out of your suits and get upstairs_.” 

“And shower, hopefully,” Fenix murmured as the tunnel became narrower. “Definitely don’t want to meet Malcolm smelling like sweat, smoke, and god knows what else.” 

“You don’t care how you smell around me.” 

“Because you’re not a guest.” She slanted a look at him. “Most often you’re a pest.” 

A playful grin tugged at Robin’s mouth. “You have a crush on him, don’chu?” 

A harrumph was his answer. Not that he needed one. Robin had suspected a lot of Fenix’s fascination with Malcolm Whitly stemmed from their shared experiences, common interests, and their having less than ideal fathers. Now, though, he believed his best friend was interested in more than their shared trauma, jerk fathers, and growing up in gilded cages. _It’s about time she develops a crush_ , he decided as he flew out of the chute into the Batcave. Outside of a brief flirtation between her and Superboy at the start of the year, Fenix hadn’t shown interest in anyone other than a celebrity and Captain America. 

And he didn’t count Cap since the guy was, technically, older than Bruce.

Robin allowed the Batwing to hover as a pair of slate cubes rose up from the platform to form a landing pad. He touched down on the cubes and waited for the plane to settle before hitting the button to open the canopy. They both emerged once it did. Robin began walking across the platform towards the changing area. He shed his mask and cape as he went, officially balancing between _Dick Grayson: High School Student_ and _Robin: Boy Wonder._

Fenix did the same as she walked with him into the locker room. Wrist gauntlets, masks, boots, utility belts, elbow and knee pads all went into their designated areas. Armored tunics, capes, and pants got returned to their drawers.

Towels were grabbed from the rack, clean clothes snagged from lockers, and they headed off to take showers. Dick ran the water hot to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. 

He would have stayed under the spray until the water ran cold but knew he couldn’t tarry. He dried off and dressed in loose fitting cotton pants and a t-shirt before exiting the shower area. Raya was running a towel over her hair while Jason sat on a bench, watching. The eleven year old all but vibrated with excitement. Dick hid a grin as he tossed his damp towel and dirty socks and shorts into the hamper. 

“Did you guys really break into Bellevue Psychiatric tonight?” Jason asked soon as he spied Dick. “No fooling?”

“Raya’s the one who broke into Bellevue,” Dick teased as he ruffled Jason’s hair. “I waited on the roof.” 

“You came in after I called for backup, so technically,” Raya said as she dumped her towel and dirty clothes in with his, “you broke in, too.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dick rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Rae.”

“I wish I coulda been there.” Jason’s eyes gleamed. “I’da taught them creeps a lesson.” 

“And gotten yourself and Malcolm hurt, possibly killed,” Raya pointed out as she sat to pull on some socks. _Bruce’s_ , Dick saw with some amusement. “You have to know when to cut and run, Jay-bee. We’re not invincible. Bullets don’t bounce off us like they do Superman.” 

“I know they don’t.” Jason heaved a sigh. “Still woulda given ‘em a whoopin’, though.” 

“Bet you would’ve.” Dick ruffled his hair again, earning a glower from Jason. “C’mon, pretty sure Alfred has hot chocolate and cookies waiting.” 

“He made chocolate chip!” A grin wreathed Jason’s face. “And peanut butter!” 

“Tomorrow we’ll bake gingerbread.” Raya stood. “We have to beat Bruce and Alfred this year.”

“Beat them?” Suspicion darkened Jason’s face. “At what?”

“Building the best gingerbread house.”

“It’s one of Bruce’s Christmas traditions.” One of the few he participated in. “We’ve lost to him and Alfred every year. But this year it’s three against two.” 

“Four,” Raya corrected as she started making her way towards the elevator. “Malcolm will be on our team so it’ll be four against two.” 

“You’ve so got a crush on him,” Dick teased as he and Jason followed. “Admit it.” 

“Shut up, buzzard for brains.” 

It was all the proof Dick needed to know he was right. 

_About time_ , he thought as they entered the elevator and headed up to greet their guest.


	14. Chapter 14

Malcolm found himself unable to do more than stare at the wonder all around him. It wasn’t the opulence that stunned him. He had grown up in a home as lavish as Wayne Manor. However, his mother didn’t decorate like... _this_. Along the base of the fountain, around every entryway, and climbing the staircase were yards of garland. Hundreds of twinkling lights shimmered from where they had been nestled among the pearlescent ropes. Ornamental wreaths of sweet smelling pine had been decorated with big red, yellow, and blue bows, porcelain turtledoves, toy soldiers, small groups of winter berries, and candy canes. 

To the people who lived here, the foyer must have seemed warm and festive, brimming with the joy and spirit of the season.

To Malcolm? 

It was sensory overload. 

“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” 

Malcolm spun around and found himself face-to-face with a girl who stole what little breath he could draw around the bands clamped around his chest, his head. 

“Mister Malcolm Whitly,” Alfred said from behind him, “may I present Miss Raya Kean?”

The eyes that met his brimmed with mischief and a plethora of secrets. It was the color that punched a hole in Malcolm’s gut.

They were _green_. 

Not hazel green, not emerald, not green flecked with hints of gold or brown or blue. 

A pure and hypnotic shade of green. 

Same as _Fenix’s_. 

_That... was impossible, though_ , he thought, brow crinkling. Fenix was currently with Robin and Batman. There was no way she could have left the GCPD, flown to Wayne Manor, showered and changed into a loose fitting t-shirt advertising a band he never heard of and sleep pants with Christmas lightbulbs on them before he got here. 

_Right_? 

A discreet cough intruded on Malcolm’s chaotic thoughts. Embarrassed heat filled his cheeks at that subtle reminder about manners and social niceties. He was saved from further humiliating himself when a boy with dark hair still damp from a shower snuck up behind Raya and scooped her up in a bear hug. 

“Richard John Grayson!” she hissed as she struggled in his hold. “I’m going to brain you if you don’t let me go, right now!” 

“Miss Raya.” Alfred’s tone was crisp. “We do not brain anyone in this house despite how aggravating they’re being.” 

“Sorry, Alfred.” 

To the grinning boy, he said, “Master Richard, we do not sneak up on people and grab them. Now, let Miss Raya go.” His stern look told Malcolm he expected immediate compliance. 

Which he got as the boy, Richard, immediately let Raya go. 

“Now.” Alfred turned and started making his way across the foyer. “Why don’t you two take Master Whitly upstairs and help him get settled? I shall bring tea and cookies to the entertainment room in a few minutes.” 

Malcolm wanted to tell the butler not to trouble himself but a look at the faces of Raya and Richard told him the words would fall on deaf ears. 

And honestly? 

A cup of Earl Gray sounded fantastic at that moment.

Raya surprised Malcolm when she curled a hand around his elbow. What shocked him more was he found himself wishing it was his hand as she led him up the stairs.

…

Batman took to the rooftops after sending Robin and Fenix back to the Batcave. The last thing they could afford was any of them greeting their guest dressed in their suits. Allowing Malcolm Whitly to stay at Wayne Manor always carried the possibility of their alter-egos being discovered. However, given the situation, and the particular man involved, it was a risk he had to take. 

_Same as I did seven years ago_ , Batman mused as he perched atop a guardrail. He hadn’t been surprised Raya figured out his identity. Knowing who Batman was came down to a matter of necessity. She had _needed_ to know who Batman was and set out to figure out the answer. Raya’s deductive reasoning, especially at such a young age was something he had not only admired, but found himself wanting to cultivate, as well. Bringing her into Batman’s cartoon circus world had not been his original intention. He never wanted Raya, Dick or Jason traipsing around Gotham’s rooftops with him.

They joined Batman’s fight on crime by their own volition. Because of their individual traumas. Out of a moral outrage over their individual traumas and feelings of hopeless helplessness. Taking them in, mentoring them, and teaching them how to not only fight those who thrived on hurting others filed him with a sense of accomplishment. Of pride. If all he achieved in his life was raising three strong, compassionate, and intelligent children? Well, then he achieved all he hoped for.

Malcolm Whitly was another story. He wasn’t an orphan or a child who lost a parent to another. His father was a serial predator who hid his proclivity for murder behind a genial facade. His mother, Jessica, would not approve of her son working with him. Jessica made her thoughts about Batman clear the last time they saw each other. Her son joining him in a “fruitless crusade” best “left for the police” would only enhance her belief that Batman functioned more as a menace than he did anything else. Malcolm could not become another of his protégés. He was firm on that. However, he was wise enough to realize that didn’t stop him from discovering who Batman, Robin, and Fenix were. No more than he could Raya. All he could do was what he did after she revealed her knowledge that he was Batman.

_"You can never tell anybody that you know my identity,”_ Bruce told her quietly. _“The difference between knowing and not knowing Batman's identity is wrapped up in the importance of the fact. Batman is a necessity Gotham needs in order for it to survive what men like the Joker try to do to it. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes."_ Those catlike eyes glowed in the reflection of the glass. _"And I will never tell anybody who Batman is,"_ she vowed in a voice that belonged more to a full-grown adult than it did to a small child. _"Never."_

She never had, either. 

Raya entered his twisted world against his intentions, and under his tutelage, and with Gordon’s guidance, she turned into a formidable detective. _And a strong and capable crime fighter_ , he realized as he searched the streets below for signs of activity. Same as Dick and same as Jason once he completed his basic training.

Did he regret charging children with a secret they were too small, innocent for? 

Yes.

Did he wish he had never taken them under his wing and trained them? 

No. 

Because Malcolm Whitly would be dead were it not for Raya and Dick using his training to sneak into his room at Bellevue and getting him out before Berkeley’s hired mercenaries arrived. The wind fluttered his cape. Hummed in his blood. He was... restless. He needed to burn off his excess energy before returning home and presenting his carefully crafted image of a playboy returning home from an evening spent in excess. Hunting up criminals seemed like a good way to accomplish that and do something productive with his time. 

He leapt from the rail, shooting off a line from his grapnel gun once he spotted a point that’d make a decent perch. He continued traversing the city until he found what he was looking for: a group of thugs standing outside an abandoned apartment building. Them being outside the building didn’t warrant any suspicion on its own. 

The cloth one stuck into a glass bottle, however, did. 

Batman knew the bottle was likely filled with gas or some other accelerant. Once that makeshift wick was lit and the man tossed the bottle, it’d release a sudden, deadly fireball. 

If he let them light it, that is. 

_Which_ , he decided, jaw clenching, _I’m not_.

The people who lived in these dilapidated buildings were one paycheck away from the street. What few precious items they had would be quickly consumed by the blaze that molotov would create.

Batman fired a grapple cable, snagged the punk around the ankles, then yanked him up the side of the building. He locked the grapple and left him hanging twenty-seven feet off the ground. As the would-be arsonist jerked to a stop, Batman dove, cape spread, and caught the would-be firebomb before it smashed on the ground. He disposed of it by hurtling it towards Gotham River. It sunk into the dark waters with nothing more than a splash. 

Batman then turned his attention to the remaining arsonists. He took down the largest one with a crushing kick to his jaw. The goon yelled as blood spurted from his mouth. Another kick and the thug went down. 

He stayed down this time. 

The remaining three he recognized as longtime members of the Park Row Boyz. Scumbags like them expected their victims to surrender without making more than a frightened mewl. There was little reason for people to fight back when they were being threatened with being blown to hell if they didn’t hand over the contents of a cash register, wallet or purse. 

Batman wasn’t planning to either whimper or give into their threats. 

He was going to teach them a lesson they’d remember as they sat in their cells at Blackgate. 

He thrust a hard fist into the gut of the blue-haired punk on his left, then smashed an elbow into the face of the one on his right. The first gasped and went to his knees as the second stumbled back, howling and holding his nose. A kick to the side of his head sent him to the ground, where he remained, unmoving. He turned as the final goon reached for the gun in his waistband. Batman used the weighted end of his cape to disorient him before leaping across the short distance to slam him to the ground. The gun skittered across the cobblestone. Thug three grabbed for it but Batman’s boot stomped the gangbanger’s hand. The thug howled as bones cracked and snapped.

His criminal days, far as he was concerned, were over. Batman stared at the downed gang members. They wouldn’t be causing mischief again any time soon. Maybe they’d have learned their lessons by the time they got out of jail. He hoped so, but sincerely doubted it. Recidivism was high in Gotham. Especially since crime paid better than most nine-to-fives. He activated his comm and keyed it to Gordon’s frequency. 

“I’ve got five Park Row Boyz on Braddock north of Maddox. Tried to bomb an apartment. Send a uni to pick them up.”

“ _Gimme ten minutes and I’ll get a bus over there for them_.” Gordon sounded tired and frustrated. Not that Batman couldn’t figure out why. It had been a helluva night for all of them. Especially Malcolm Whitly. “ _Dracula attacked some girls at the Pink Bunny_. _Got two heading to the hospital with deep bite marks to their throats and another with a lacerated scalp from where she fell and hit her head while running away._ ”

“Another of those drugged by Tetch?” 

“ _Won’t know until ME runs tox_.” A sigh vibrated in his ear. “ _The bouncer put two in the guy before we got there_.”

“Where are you now, Jim?” 

“ _I’m heading back to the GCPD. Too keyed up to sleep so I figured I’d do some looking into those cold cases our girl thinks might be connected to The Surgeon. Speaking of which, you and I should meet. There are some things we need to discuss that we didn’t get to earlier_.” 

Batman turned back to the five would-be arsonists, all secured with black plastic zip ties. “These five aren’t going anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Twenty max. The usual place?” 

“ _Sure_ ,” Gordon replied. “ _See you then_.”

...

Telling Jessica about what almost happened to Malcolm at Bellevue went as well as Gil expected it. Not that he anticipated this particular conversation going well in the first place. Saying Jessica was difficult was an understatement. Malcolm, with all his issues, was easier to deal with than his mother. 

A tornado was less complicated to handle than Jessica Whitly. 

Being a force to reckon with was how she survived after her husband was outed as a killer with a minimum of twenty-three victims. Many of them from the social circles her and Martin Whitly once reigned over. Jessica was placed under heavy scrutiny and scorn after Martin’s arrest. News called her complicit. Accused her of hiding her husband’s crimes to preserve her social standing. Some even hinted at her involvement in Martin’s activities.

All untrue.

When they got finished skewering her, they then went after Malcolm.

Jessica had to become a shark in order to protect herself and her children from those who wanted to hold them accountable for what Martin Whitly did. Her glacier calm, withering looks, and razor-sharp wit were the weapons she used to fight a world that tried and convicted her without any evidence to support her involvement in her husband’s crimes. Gil just wished she would remember _he_ was on her side. 

“What do you mean some men tried to kill Malcolm at Bellevue?” Worry, anger, and fear vied for dominance on her flawless face. “What men?”

“I don’t know who they are.” 

It wasn’t a total lie. 

Gil didn’t actually know the identities of the men who swept the floor Malcolm’s room was on. There was little hope of finding out who the men were, too. He also doubted they’d get much, if anything, from the hospital footage the detectives working the case recovered. Even if they did catch the men on tape, they wouldn’t be able to use facial recognition software to obtain their names. The masks the mercenaries wore prevented them from figuring out their identities. What little information Gil did have came from the sixteen year old masked crime fighters who were there at the time of the attack. Them, and their dark mentor, were his best bet for finding those men and seeing them put in jail. Not that Gil told Jessica that. Things were already complicated without adding Batman and his protégés into the mix. 

“Why would these men attack my son?” 

Gil wiped a hand over his face as he deliberated how best to answer that question without raising Jessica’s ire further. 

Not that he had any hope of that. 

“Jess...”

“He’s sixteen, Gil!” 

“I know he is...” he tried. “But—”

“What reason could anyone have for killing him?” 

The truth was the only thing he could give her to that question.

“We believe this is about revenge.” 

“Revenge.” Jessica‘s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Let me guess... Martin?” She waved a hand dismissively and scoffed. “Of course, it is. Why wouldn’t it be? As if that man hasn’t done enough to damage this family.”

Gil wisely chose to remain silent. 

Not because he didn’t agree with her. 

Far from it.

He freely acknowledged that most of Malcolm’s problems were all related to his father. To the things Malcolm had seen; heard. That he may have been forced to do. Jessica just didn’t need any reminders about what Martin Whitly had done to Malcolm. Not while she was a shark smelling blood in the water and he the only one present she could take a bite out of. 

“Where is Malcolm now?”

“He’s safe, Jessica.” That much comfort he could give her. “He was taken to Gotham for protection.”

“ _Gotham_.” Her low hiss reminded Gil of a pissed off cat. Not that Jessica would appreciate the comparison. “He was taken to that festering cesspool of a city without my permission?” 

“There was no time for those who helped get him out of Bellevue to call you for permission to take him to Gotham.” That much was absolute truth. “They had to move Malcolm before the men hired to find him and kill him did so.”

Jessica’s face blanched. “Who could possibly want my son dead?” 

“A man named Matthew Berkeley.” 

“Matty?” Jessica’s eyebrows rose. “He wouldn’t harm a fly.” 

Gil’s heart did a flop-flop in his chest. “You know Matthew Berkeley?” 

“Of course, I do.” Jessica got up and walked to the sideboard to pour herself a drink. One of the many Gil suspected she consumed before going to bed. “Matty and I dated briefly in college.” 

Pieces started to link together in Gil’s mind. Jessica passing Berkeley over for Martin Whitly presented a reason for why Berkeley could want the kid dead.

“Did Matthew Berkeley ever meet Martin Whitly?” 

“Yes, many times.” Jessica glanced at him over her shoulder. “Matty came to dinner and attended the theater with us quite often.” Her brow creased. “Why?”

“Because we have reason to believe Martin is the killer of a number of missing persons in Gotham. People who all have a connection with Matthew Berkeley.”

The decanter in Jessica’s hand clattered back down onto the smooth oak surface. “What?” Her brow creased. “You think Martin had something to do with people who went missing in Gotham?”

“We do, yes.”

“And you think _Matty_ was involved?”

“We think Matthew Berkeley hired Martin to kill these people, yes.” 

A look of disbelief crossed Jessica’s face. “Why on Earth would you think Matty hired that despicable man to kill people?” 

“Because people went missing during the time Martin was operating as _The Surgeon._ ” Jessica’s hurt and dismay punched Gil in the gut. It couldn’t be helped, though. She needed to know why Malcolm was being targeted. _And by who_. “And there is evidence that connects those victims with both Berkeley and Martin.” 

“My God...” Jessica whispered. “Are they part of the original twenty-three?” 

“No.” Gil’s fingers itched to curl into fists. He curved them around his bent knees, instead. “They’re separate from the original twenty-three. Meaning if a connections made that Martin could be prosecuted for them.”

“In Gotham.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well.” Jessica turned to grab the decanter she dropped. “Let’s hope a connection can be made, shall we? I cannot think of a more fitting place for my ex-husband to end up than Blackgate Penitentiary.” She carried her half-full glass to the couch. “Unless they decide to throw him in Arkham Asylum.” A small feral gleam shot through her eyes as she perched on the cushion. “Perhaps I can convince the judge to throw him in the same cell with the Joker.” 

Gil had a feeling Jessica wouldn’t have to worry about asking a judge to toss him in a cell with the Joker. 

Something told him Martin Whitly was going to end up there, anyway. 


	15. Chapter 15

Malcolm sat on a corner of the couch and stared at the Christmas tree sitting in one corner of the entertainment room, seeing but not seeing the twinkling lights, brightly colored ornaments or the dark-haired angel that looked suspiciously like Raya perched atop its crown. Resentment bubbled inside the miasma of other thoughts and emotions burning away in his belly. The whole mass threatened to burst from him in one cataclysmic explosion of bitter anger, anxiety, and fear. 

Malcolm didn't know what to do with his violently quaking hands so he shoved them between his knees. A child’s way of trying to control the tremors rolling from the tips of his fingers, through his hands, past his wrists, up his elbows, into his shoulders before traveling back down again. 

Not that it stopped them.

Nothing ever stopped the tremors. Not once they got started, anyway. Even the handful of pills he swallowed on a daily basis only worked to keep things at bay for a short amount of time. _They don't do much to quiet the noise inside my head, either_.

He learned to live with the white static, though. The noise was a comfort to him after all these years. Something he could count on to always be there. The shadow things that taunted him, laughed at him, shouted obscenities at him were another story, though. Them he could happily do without. Not they were of a mind to leave him. 

They always reminded Malcolm of their existence the moment he didn’t have anything to distract him. They started to hurl their abuse at him the second the huge doors closed behind Gil. They hadn’t stopped their assault on him in the two hours since he got to Wayne Manor. They’d continue their brand of torment until something came along to appease them. 

Like whenever he took a knife and made a cut into his flesh. 

Or thrust a needle into the heel of his foot.

Or pushed a thumbtack into his thigh.

 _Do it_... a sly voice whispered. _You know you want too._

Bile scorched the back of Malcolm’s throat. 

Flooded his mouth. 

Malcolm feared he’d spew frothy rivers of gingerbread cookie and Earl Grey all over the polished floor, table, and couch any second. Somehow he managed to avoid making a bigger nuisance of himself than he already was. 

_If Gil hadn’t left me_... 

Malcolm didn’t finish that thought. He shouldn’t feel as he did. He knew he shouldn’t. He had no reason to feel as if Gil betrayed him by leaving him here at Wayne Manor. It was for his safety, after all. Plus, it wasn’t like he hadn’t been made welcome. 

Far from it, actually. 

Raya, Dick, and Jason had done everything they could to ease his anxieties and concerns. Even Alfred had gone above and beyond to welcome him, bringing in tea and hot chocolate and a plate of cookies fresh from the oven. Malcolm had accepted the mug of tea — Earl Grey for him and Mediterranean Mint for Raya — and a gingerbread cookie gratefully. 

The animated chatter, cheery fire, and warm tea helped settle his stomach and calm his nerves. He found himself slowly starting to relax, enjoying the teasing banter and playful quips tossed back and forth between Raya, Dick, and Jason. He shocked himself when he responded to one of Jason’s barbs with his own. More surprising was when he didn’t get verbally or physically assaulted for it. He had tensed, expecting some sort of backlash, but the trio just burst out laughing and continued their back-and-forth exchange as if his comment was the most natural thing in the world for him to say. Their willing acceptance of him, their inclusion of him in their little circle sent light shooting through him. The shadow things shrieked as they dove to the farthest recesses of his mind. Nobody accepted him as willingly and easily as they did. 

Gil jokingly told him once how he was “an acquired taste.” Malcolm replied he was a bad taste that people did their best to rid themselves of. With Raya, Dick, and Jason, however, he didn’t see himself as an acquired taste, the son of a serial killer or even as Malcolm Whitly. 

He was just... _himself_.

Something he had not been... ever. If Malcolm was being honest, really honest, he’d admit he had no idea who Malcolm Whitly was. From as far back as he could remember his father kept telling them they were the same. 

Were they, though? 

That question had continued to rattle around inside the white noise. 

Who was he? 

Alfred had come in and shooed Jason, despite his protests, off to bed as Malcolm continued to ponder that question. Dick, too, had opted to turn in, to his chagrin. 

“Got school tomorrow,” he explained, side-eyeing Raya. “Well, some of us do, anyway.” 

“I’ve got work and then class in the afternoon, thank you,” she retorted primly.

“You have creative writing.”

“So?” 

“So, it’s your easiest subject.” 

“And your point is what?” Raya huffed as she followed him from the room. Over her shoulder to Malcolm she called, “I’ll find you something more comfortable to wear until Detective Arroyo returns with your things.” 

His good mood fled at the reminder he had come here with nothing but the clothes on his back. Even his medication had needed special dispensing. _It’s not Gil’s fault_ , Malcolm told himself as he stared at a snow globe with a carousel horse nestled among the branches. There wasn’t a whole lot of choices available for them to pick from. Wayne Manor was the only place he could be taken that was safe from Matthew Berkeley. 

Still, Malcolm couldn’t help feeling as if he had been abandoned here. Gil could have stayed when he asked, no, _begged_ him. He didn’t have to go right at that moment. His mother would fuss and fume about him being brought to Gotham no matter when she found out. 

_I’ll likely hear her tirade from here._

Malcolm wasn’t looking forward to it. His mother would find some way to blame him for what happened. As if he asked for men to come to Bellevue and try to kill him. He hunched his shoulders and planted his chin on top of his bent knees. He was being selfish. Gil went out of his way to do whatever he needed when he needed it. Still, he couldn’t help how he felt.

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

A trickle of warmth melted away the ice that had balled in his belly. Disconcerted by his reaction, Malcolm turned his head to look at Raya. “You’d need change,” he mumbled.

Raya hummed a laugh. “You’ll owe me.” 

Malcolm offered a noncommittal reply. What was he supposed to say to that? He hadn’t a clue. She walked over and set a tray of medical supplies on the coffee table. He eyed the rolls of gauze, tape, and antibiotic cream with a mixture of dread and unease. “What are those for?” 

As if he didn’t know...

“Alfred thought it a good idea to check your stitches and make sure you didn’t pull any while escaping from Bellevue.” 

“Oh.” As if he really had forgotten the gashes he made with that paring knife. He’d never forget what he did in Jackie’s pristine bathroom. Never. “Right.“

“I tried telling him we could wait until morning since the bandages aren’t bloody but he insisted they be checked before bed.” 

Malcolm had no desire to sleep. He wouldn’t even if he had his restraints. Not when the shadow things were whispering promises of what would happen once his eyes closed.

“We can check them later.” Malcolm offered her what he hoped passed for a smile. “They’re not bleeding, as you said.”

“No, but I should still check them.” Raya sat gingerly on the couch. “Make sure they’re not infected or anything.” 

“Oh, no!” Her seeing the cuts he made in his wrists was the last thing he wanted. His hands vibrated against his knees. “You don’t need to—”

“Malcolm.” Soft but firm. “I know you’re ashamed of those cuts. You shouldn’t be.” Malcolm kept his gaze firmly locked on the snow globe with the carousel horse to avoid seeing the disappointment and sorrow in her eyes. “You were in a really dark place at the time and couldn’t see any way out.” Her fingers lightly skimmed the top of his foot. Offering what he didn’t deserve. What he couldn’t accept. Could never have. “Just know you’re not alone. There are people here who can and will help you. All you need to do is reach out and ask.”

Malcolm didn’t know what to say so he did what he always did when he found himself in awkward situations: he just sat there and said nothing at all.

…

Gordon walked across the rooftop of the GCPD to where that infamous signal sat on its metal casing. It had taken him nearly two years, countless threats, and multiple fights before finally getting it approved. People thought he wore down City Hall with his endless demands, but the truth was a sizable donation, as well as a polite phone call from Bruce Wayne got the application approved. Gordon wasn’t an idiot. He was well aware that those downtown held out hope that the criminals would eliminate Batman, and Gordon, as well. Then they‘d hire a new police commissioner.

One more willing to do as they were told. 

The signal started a new era in Gotham. The people could finally put a face on their caped hero. It wasn’t business as usual. The vermin no longer ruled the night because a Dark Knight now patrolled those shadows they operated in. Gillian Loeb and Jack Grogan, Gordon’s predecessors, depicted Batman as a dangerous vigilante, a menace to Gotham and its people. Some agreed with them, citing the innumerable incidents of urban war that occurred since Batman arrived on the scene. Gordon couldn’t argue with them. The more the filthy degenerates and criminally insane upped their ante to stop Batman, the more he upped his to stop them. Batman worked largely outside the law. It could even be said he overstepped the basic rights given to all of Gotham’s citizens.

Scum included.

Gordon always contented himself with the fact that Batman didn’t kill. Batter, bruise, and break a few bones, certainly. It was less than what many of these self-serving thugs did to those they victimized. He didn’t admit, publicly anyway, that there were times the law and its restrictions proved ineffective. The police were often left helpless, handicapped even by the limitations placed on them. Too often he had stood by and watched as hell itself got unleashed on Gotham. Shortcuts were taken to solve problems, “in the name of public safety.” Those sidesteps, though, only made an already bad situation, worse. Restrictions that prevented them from doing their jobs. It was a problem that couldn’t be dodged. 

And led directly to Batman. 

Many times over the years it was the Dark Knight who turned the tide. He prevented the monsters from winning. Kept the fanatics from laying waste to the city. Batman did what they couldn’t because he wasn’t limited by the rules. Lots of cops privately believed Batman was the solution, and not the problem the media labeled him as. The honest ones, anyway. Defending him had caused Gordon plenty of problems over the years. In a city like Gotham, where the justice system was a revolving door rift with corrupt judges and shyster attorneys, Batman’s long list of victories made a world of difference. Most people who saved one or two people would be forgotten by the next news brief. 

Those who saved an entire city, time and time again? 

They were remembered forever. 

People saw Batman, as well as his protégés and the host of friends who frequently aided him as the only measure of security they had against the madmen that threatened them. Knowing he existed gave them a measure of comfort; hope. They could rest assured there was one man out there fighting for them, to hell with the risks or cost to himself. Many of the city’s officials and so-called lawmakers demanded he stop Batman any way he could. Even the honest politicians oftentimes chastised him for allowing Batman as much liberty as he did. Gordon couldn’t fault their feelings. He, too, believed in the spirit of the law. 

He just couldn’t deny the people of Gotham City a savior to call their own. 

Their hero always towed the line. 

In the decade since he started operating in the city, he never once crossed it. 

_God willing_ , he silently prayed, _he never will._

“You look exhausted.”

Gordon nearly jumped out of his skin. As always, he hadn’t heard the man approach.

“Been up twenty hours straight,” Gordon replied with a small smile. “I’ll likely bleed coffee at this point.” 

“You said you wanted to talk.” Batman peered at him. “What about?” 

“Martin Whitly.” 

“What about him?”

“Is there the possibility that Berkeley hired him to kill his wife?” Gordon turned towards him. “Raya?”

“Yes.” 

That was the one thing he could always count on with Batman: the truth. 

“Does Raya know?” 

Did she even suspect her and her mother were almost victims of _The Surgeon?_

“No.” Batman moved to the searchlight. “She believes her father murdered her mother because she told you about his partnership with Roman Sionis.” 

“We have to tell her.” Much as he hated hurting their girl, especially this close to the anniversary of her mother’s death, there was no other choice. “She needs to know.” 

“I’ll tell her, Jim.” That gloved hand touched the emblem fused to the steel casing. “When the time is right.” 

“Is it possible this is Berkeley getting back at Whitly for failing to grab them?” 

“This is about revenge.” Batman’s fingers curled on that winged symbol. The same one emblazoned across his chest plate. “On Whitly and on Raya.” 

“Consequences.” That’s what Berkeley always said when he slapped a pair of cuffs on him. “Whitly for not doing as instructed and Raya for shattering the illusion of him as a loving husband and father.” 

“We’ll stop him this time, Jim.” Batman’s electric gaze met Gordon’s. “Before he can hurt her or Malcolm Whitly.” 

“Gonna be hard to keep our girl from going after Berkeley once she finds out the truth.” 

“Raya will stick to the Whitly boy like glue after I tell her why her father wants him dead.”

“I have a feeling our girl would stick to that boy’s side even if her father wasn’t involved.”

Batman didn’t smile but Gordon detected a hint of humor lurking in his eyes. “She does appear to have a bit of a crush on him.”

“Barbara was boy crazy by Raya’s age.” Something he had not looked forward too. “Already left a string of broken hearts in her wake by the time she was Raya’s age.”

“Raya’s heart is more guarded.” Another thing stolen from their girl. “She only gives it to those she completely trusts.”

“Her and the Whitly boy.” Gordon blew out a breath. “They’re similar in so many ways.”

 _Ways_ , he added silently, stomach clenching, _no children should be_.

“They’re also different in others.” Batman’s breath fogged the air. “Her strengths are Malcolm Whitly’s weaknesses.”

“Do you suspect she will try and train the boy behind your back?”

“I expect her, too.”

Gordon blinked his eyes wide. “I thought you were against her training the boy?”

“I was.” A sigh accompanied those words. “I should have listened to her years ago, Jim.” A shadow of guilt passed across what little of Batman’s face was visible. “Maybe he wouldn’t have tried to commit suicide if I had taken him under my wing as I did her.”

“You can’t rescue every traumatized child.”

No matter how much either of them wanted too. It was something they shared in common. A mutual wish to save every child from the monsters in the dark. An impossible task given the sheer number of children abused on a daily basis.

“No,” Batman agreed with a slight nod. “But I could have helped this one.”

Gordon was momentarily distracted by a police helicopter flying overhead. _I wonder who ordered a chopper up_? He watched it swing out over the harbor, heading to one place, and one place alone. _Arkham_ , he thought, sighing. _Of course._

That was the other thing Gordon could count on: the inmates at the asylum for the criminally insane. 

_Well, that_ , he realized as he looked and saw Batman gone. _And him disappearing as silently as he showed up._


	16. Chapter 16

Gil came as promised the next afternoon. The only thing that disappointed Malcolm was he didn’t bring Jackie with him. 

“Why didn’t Jackie come with you?” he asked as they got settled in the living room that was totally unlike either his mother’s or the Arroyo’s. “Was she stuck at work?”

“Her mother fell on some ice and was rushed to the hospital.” Gil offered a plate wrapped in plastic wrap to him. “She baked some of your favorite cookies. Said they’ll go great with hot mugs of tea.” 

Malcolm took the plate with shaky hands. Much as he appreciated Jackie baking his favorite cookies, he really would have preferred if she’d have come with Gil. “Will her mother be okay?” 

“She’ll be fine.” Gil sat back, smiling as he looked around. “You settling in here okay?” 

“Yes,” Malcolm lied. “Everyone has been really nice to me.” That part was absolutely the truth. Everyone had been nice to him. Especially Raya. “I like them a lot.” Another truth. “It’s just...” he trailed off, guilt forcing his lips to shut. 

“It’s just, what?” A hand settled on the back of his neck. Warm and comforting. Desperately needed after the last twenty-four hours. “Talk to me, kid.” 

Malcolm desperately wanted to tell Gil about the thoughts rampaging through his brain. 

How could he, though? 

“It’s nothing.” Moisture gathered in the corner of his eyes as the lie tripped off his tongue. He tried to call the tears back but two slicked his cheeks before he could stop them. “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“C’mon, kid,” Gil coaxed, fingers lightly massaging his tense neck muscles. “What‘s the problem?” 

“It’s me,” came tumbling out before he could stop it. “I’m the problem.” 

“No.” Soft but firm. “You’re not.” 

“I am!” Malcolm rounded on him, unable to keep a lid on the things inside his head. “I am the problem! And I can’t be fixed!” 

“Kid.” Gil shifted to face him. “You’re not a problem. You—”

“Gil, people died!” The words came pouring out, faster and faster, almost desperate in their desire for being heard. “They died because of _me_! Because of a man who wants _me_ dead!” 

“No.” That sirens voice that occupied his thoughts more than he liked drew Malcolm’s gaze to the entryway. Raya stood there, silver tea service balanced between her hands, and a determined expression on her face. “Those people died because of two men: your bastard of a father and the sperm donor listed on my birth certificate as mine.”

“People died because of me.” 

Raya crossed the room and set the tray onto the coffee table. “You are the victim here, Malcolm,” she stated in a tone that said she’d accept no argument on this. “You are not to blame for what happened.” 

“She’s right.” Gil gently squeezed his neck. “You’re not to blame here. Matthew Berkeley is.” 

“But—”

“No.” 

“I—”

“No.” 

Frustration chased away his anxiety. “Those men wouldn’t have been there were it not for me.”

“Those men wouldn’t have been there if your father and mine were not malignant narcissists who enjoy hurting people.”

Malcolm reared back, shock chasing away the guilt, fear, and anxiety. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard his father called that, and worse, before. He just had never heard it said so vehemently from someone who never met him. His brow drew together as he tried to puzzle out why Raya hated his father with the same degree of passion she did her own. 

“You hate him...” he said slowly, lifting his eyes to her glittering ones. “Why?” 

“Kid...” Gil squeezed the back of his neck to gain his attention. “Most people don’t think positively about serial killers like your father.” 

Malcolm didn’t think that was the reason for why Raya hated his father. No, something inside him told him her reasons had more to do with _him_ than Doctor Whitly. 

“You hate him because of me, don’t you?” 

“Does that surprise you?” 

“Yes— no...” Raya took a seat on the opposite side of him. Close enough for him to catch a haunting mix of kiwi, litchi, and jasmine, and start to drown in it. “I… uh… don’t know.”

“He hurt you, Malcolm.” She poured tea into a cup she passed Gil. “That’s why I loathe him.” 

“I’m like him.” He watched her pour more hot tea into a second cup. “We’re the same.” 

“Bullshit.” Raya shot a panicked look at Gil as Malcolm gaped at her. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that out loud! It was extremely rude of me to use such language in front of company.”

“You’re right, though.” Gil smiled at her from over the rim of his cup. “It is bullshit. Something I’ve tried to get through to him but have clearly never succeeded at getting across.” 

“He says we’re the same.” Malcolm frowned his dismay into his steaming cup. “That I am just like him.”

“Narcissists are master manipulators and liars.” Raya poured tea into another cup before sitting back. “They callously disregard the feelings of others, crave power and control, exploit others without remorse or shame, and frequently use intimidation to obtain compliance.”

“But—”

“No.” 

Frustration shimmied through the fingers curled around his cup. “I’m—”

“Not hardly.”

Malcolm glowered at her. Not that it impressed Raya any. She simply stared back at him while calmly sipping her tea. “You’re not going to let me win this argument, are you?” he finally grumbled.

“Nope.”

“Told you you needed to learn a few things while living here,” came from Dick as he walked into the room. “How to argue with a mule is one of ‘em.”

“Mule?” One dark brow lifted. “That’s rich coming from an ox.”

Dick dropped into one of the overstuffed armchairs with a grin. “That’s Bruce.”

“No, he’s an impenetrable wall.” 

“I’m what, imp?” Bruce Wayne rumbled as he entered the room, a fluffy kitten with cream colored fur in his arms. “And someone was sleeping in my closet again.” 

Raya passed her cup to Dick in order to take the kitten and set her in her lap. “Your closet has lots of places for Anna to hide is why.”

“Anna?” Malcolm wished he could do as the small kitten and curl up in Raya’s lap. “That’s her name?” 

“It’s for Anna Pavlova,” she explained as she stroked a hand over that silky fur. “A—”

“Prima ballerina who performed around the world with the Ballet Russes.” He covered up his knowledge by quickly adding, “Mother takes me to the ballet.”

“Bruce and I go often,” Raya said as the kitten blinked her big blue eyes at Malcolm. “In fact, Anna and tickets to _The Nutcracker_ are two early Christmas presents.”

“I have two extra tickets.” Bruce eased himself into the other armchair. “I was thinking of taking Dick and Jason.” A groan came from the boy reclining in his chair. “But perhaps you and your mother would prefer to attend, instead?” 

Excitement trickled through Malcolm at being offered such a wonderful treat. He didn’t want Gil or Dick to know how much he really wanted to see _The Nutcracker_ , though, so he took a breath to still his racing heart before replying.

“Mother would like that.”

“Excellent.” A smile curved Bruce’s lips. “I’ll give her a call then and invite her.” 

Malcolm silently prayed his mother would accept. He desperately wanted to attend the ballet with Mr. Wayne and Raya. Not only because he was asked, something that almost never happened, but because he also loved ballet. 

Knowing Raya loved it, too? 

Simply made it better.

…

“Has Malcolm given you any problems?” Gil asked as he and Bruce walked down the stairs. “I know he can be a bit difficult given his particular list of needs.” 

“He’s been no more difficult than my other three,” Bruce assured him. 

_Technically, four_ , he amended silently. Timothy Drake may not live with them full time but he was no less a member of their family. A child his imp brought into their lives after the Scarecrow released bombs laced with his toxin across Gotham two years ago. 

“You have three sixteen year olds living under one roof.” A rueful grin tugged at the detective’s lips. “I don’t know how you are staying sane at the moment.” 

“Alfred has a singular gift at keeping Raya and Dick from being too unruly.” 

“Your youngest looks like he’s a bit of a handful.”

Bruce hummed a quiet laugh. “Jason is, indeed, a bit wild at times,” he admitted with a slight nod. “He’s still settling in. Adjusting to being part of a family that loves and cares about him hasn’t been easy for him.” 

Something Bruce sensed Malcolm Whitly was also in desperate need of. While the boy had his mother, a younger sister, and Detective Arroyo and his wife to love and care about him, there wasn’t the same cohesion between them as there was between he and Gordon. Bruce had known Jessica before she became a Whitly. They traveled in many of the same social circles, attended a number of the same functions, and even supported a number of the same charities. 

_Difficult_ was the mildest word he could think of to describe Jessica. 

She had been raised by parents who belonged to the school of thought that those born rich had to uphold a certain standard. Appearances mattered among the members of high society. Scandal of any sort would see doors closed and backs turned. Martin Whitly revealed as a serial killer by their son tore Jessica’s world apart. Discovering the man she loved, married, and had children with was behind the trauma experienced by her son ripped Jessica in pieces, however. 

Dealing with her own guilt and anger at what happened was hard enough. Adding a child with the needs Malcolm had tipped the scale largely to the other side. The Arroyo’s pitched in and did what they could to help, but Bruce suspected Jessica made it perfectly clear _she_ was his mother. He and Jim chose to co-parent. To provide a safe and stable family environment for Barbara, Dick, Raya, Jason, and Tim. They made sure each of their children knew they could come to them or Alfred for anything. It wasn’t a perfect system — _they_ weren’t perfect by any means— but they gave their unique brood the best they could. 

Something they’d also offer Malcolm, if he’d allow them. 

“You were made aware about Malcolm’s night terrors?” 

“And his worry over not having his restraints.” Bruce nodded. “Yes.” 

“You were able to get a set for him?” 

“I did.” He didn’t add that he initially wanted to forego the restraints but relented after Alfred pointed out how they brought comfort and safety to their houseguest. “Alfred and I installed them earlier in hopes they’d encourage him to sleep tonight.” 

“It’ll probably be a few days before he will feel comfortable enough to sleep.” Gil breathed out a heavy sigh. “If he doesn’t pass out from exhaustion, first.”

“He‘s in a strange house and among strangers,” Bruce said. “It’s understandable he doesn’t feel safe enough to sleep.” 

“The kid avoids sleep when he’s home.” 

“He and Raya have that in common.” Bruce followed the detective to the front door. “It’s something I wish I could fix.” 

_Along with a great many other things_ , he lamented silently. 

“I’d trade places with him if I could.”

Bruce didn’t doubt that for one minute. 

He’d do the same for his own children. 

“We can’t trade places with them, unfortunately.” Laughter trailed out of the living room and down the stairs. “All we can do is find healthy compromises and work through the issues as best as we can.” 

“You’ve taken on a lot here.” Gil’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure that you can handle this? We can figure out something else if this gets to be too much.”

“It won’t be.” Bruce heard a thud and muffled cursing and sent Gil a rueful grin. “He’s far easier to deal with than two of the three upstairs.” 

Gil chuckled softly. “I hope being with your family will allow Malcolm to develop some of the social skills he lacks.”

“I have a feeling Raya and Dick will help him with that.” Cursing came floating down the stairs. “Jason, too.”

“Malcolm hasn’t had many friends his age.” Regret and remorse broke through to haunt Gil’s face. “The few he’s been lucky enough to have all burned out. Others...” 

Bruce didn’t even have to imagine what the others had done to Malcolm. The signs of it were under the snowy white bandages adorning his wrists. Children, especially teenagers, singled out those different from them and viciously attacked them. Not even Dick and Raya had been immune to the callous games and taunts of their classmates. It was behavior many learned at home, from parents or guardians who treated them in the same cold way. 

“I should have listened to Raya about bringing Malcolm here to Wayne Manor after he was attacked at the docks.” He’d always regret not taking her urgings more seriously. If he had, a sixteen year old boy wouldn’t have tried to take his own life. “Things may not have reached the level they did had I done so.” 

“None of us saw the warning signs.” 

“Raya did.” And fussed and fumed until he agreed to let her remain in New York to keep watch over Malcolm. “After Gordon called to ask if she’d meet with Malcolm she said he was in crisis and begged me to invite him here.” 

“She’s perceptive for her age.” 

“Yes, she is.” Her compassion and humanity were her greatest strengths in Bruce’s mind. They served her well in her daily life, and as Fenix. “She sees a lot of herself in Malcolm.” 

“Two children traumatized by the men who should have been protecting them.” 

Bitterness lashed the air between them. Bruce didn’t fault Gil for how he felt. There were times he wished he could rid the world of all the Martin Whitly’s and Matthew Berkeley’s. 

_The Joker._

Many times he asked himself why he didn’t simply kill the Clown Prince. He’d spare Gotham and her citizens countless hours of pain and suffering if he did decide to get rid of the Joker. 

It be easy, so easy, to give in. 

He couldn’t, though. 

Killing the Joker would not only be wrong morally, but it would make him no better than those he brought to justice. 

“She definitely doesn’t agree with the kid’s stance about either being broken or a problem that can’t be fixed.” Bruce could well imagine how his imp reacted to those sentiments. A wry grin tugged at Gil’s lips. “She also didn’t accept his being like his father.” 

Bruce chuckled softly. “He’s in for a battle with her over that.” 

“Your oldest boy said as much.” 

“Dick would know.” 

Gil hummed a soft laugh. “I get the sense they’re close despite their little arguments.” 

“They are.” Giving them each other to hold onto was the one thing Bruce was proudest of having done. “Even when they argue.”

_Especially when they argue_ , he realized as Alfred exited the kitchen and headed upstairs. They could get into heated discussions but don’t let anyone else try and start something. 

“I should go,” Gil said. “I promised my wife I’d be home before midnight.”

“Come to dinner on Sunday.” Bruce opened the door, allowing in a burst of cold air and fresh snow. “It might help Malcolm feel better knowing he has something to look forward too.” 

A pleased smile curved Gil’s lips. “Thank you.” He stepped out into the night air. “See you Sunday.” 

Bruce watched for a moment before shutting the door and heading over to a grandfather clock perched along the back wall of the foyer. He glanced up to make sure Malcolm wasn’t walking by before reaching up to set the hands to 9:45. The secret door sprung open, well-oiled hinges making not a sound. Bruce headed down into the cave below, assured Alfred would keep watch while he headed out to patrol. 


	17. Chapter 17

It wasn't a matter of _killing the messenger_. 

At least, it wasn't a matter of _killing the messenger_ in Matthew Berkeley's opinion. 

No, the way he saw it, it was more a matter of killing them as painfully as possible so that the rest of those in his employee didn’t think they could get away with failing him. Torture obtained better results than merely killing someone did. It also ensured that whatever information he was given was accurate and factual. If what he was told ended up causing him an endless amount of vexation? 

Well, there was someone there to pay for it. 

A frown darkened his brow as he pondered what his current messenger just told him. So, Andrei Rolonov, his trusted —and he had assumed his most _loyal_ — lieutenant had opted to cut a deal with Gordon to save himself from going to Blackgate. That was… _vexing_ to say the least.

A man like him couldn’t allow such subordination. 

He wasn’t a man who tolerated any sort of disloyalty. 

His wife found out the consequences of betrayal. 

As did the little brat she left him with. 

Rolonov would also learn the price of perfidy.

For now, Matthew turned to face the man who delivered this upsetting information. It wasn’t as if Timo didn’t deserve being belly-down over a simmering fire. His and his men’s failure a few weeks ago cost him money and the weapons he needed to finalize the deal he struck with Cobblepot and that two-faced lunatic, Dent. The smell wafting off the spit wasn't particularly pleasant, but Matthew had long since learned that being in command of a small army required him to make certain… sacrifices. A small, tight smile tugged at his lips as he circled the man, careful to keep the toes of his wingtips away from the lick of the flames.

“Why don't we go over this again?" His voice was like silk, a cross between a devoted mentor speaking to a favored pupil and a disappointed parent chastising a wayward son. "You are telling me Andrei Rolonov, my trusted lieutenant and your commanding officer, has made a deal with that blithering fool, Gordon to avoid going to Blackgate?"

“Ye-yes!" Pain turned the words to guttural rasps. "He was se-seen in handcuffs o-outside of the GCPD an hour ago!”

That had Matthew's attention. "And who was the officer who arrested him?"

“Da-Davidson!" The man gasped as the tips of his combat boots were caressed by fiery fingers. "He was with Davidson!"

Matthew's eyebrows winged up. "You saw him being led into the GCPD by Davidson?"

“Ye-yes!"

Anger surged and was ruthlessly rejected. There was no time for such a useless display of emotion. Not when his entire plan was unraveling right before his eyes. 

“Where exactly did he turn himself in?"

"The _Aces & Eights_!"

_That_ , he decided as the man whimpered and cried, _is interesting_. 

“And do you know why he met with Davidson at a seedy bar in Old Gotham instead of the GCPD?” 

“He didn’t want to be arrested in front of the rest of the pigs!” 

_That_ , Matthew admitted begrudgingly, _sounds like Rolonov._

“And what was his reason for making this deal with Gordon?” He flicked at an imaginary speck of dirt on the sleeve of his jacket. "Do you know?"

“The Whitly boy." The man issued a strangled scream as flames teased the ends of his greasy hair. "He doesn’t agree with your decision to kill the boy to get back at the kid’s father."

“Ah, yes. Malcolm Whitly." Matthew's tone slid to a lethal purr as he canted his head to stare at the roasting man. "The boy I specifically ordered you and your men to bring to me. Something you were unable to do… why?"

“Fenix and Robin got to the boy before we could!” 

“Ah, yes. The caped brats. Who I told you to take care of if they showed themselves. Didn’t I?”

He smiled at those standing there and silently watching this game of cat and mouse. All of them knew what the outcome of this game would be. All of them knew the consequences if they interfered. 

None of them did. 

They had no desire to find themselves suffering the punishment Timo currently was.

“Ye-yes!"

**“** And you didn't, did you?"

“N-no!" 

“You failed me, didn’t you, Timo?" Acid would have tasted sweeter than his tone. "You didn’t bring me the Whitly boy or kill them two brats."

“N-no!” The man's tears hissed and sizzled as they hit the burning logs. "B-but I have a way to make it right!"

“Oh?” Matthew crouched down to look the man in the eye. "And how do you plan to do that?"

“Your daughter!" Timo whimpered. "I have figured out a way to get my hands on her!"

Matthew found himself intrigued despite his frustration. “And how exactly do you plan on getting your hands on my daughter?"

“She and Wayne will be attending the ballet next week." A groan burst from the man's cracked lips before he gasped, "Me and the boys can grab her during intermission!"

Matthew weighed the merits of such a plan silently. 

“Are you positive this plan will work?" His eyes narrowed into slits. “You are certain that you can get your hands on my daughter?” 

“Y-yes!” A cry burst from the man as flames started to burn through his jeans. "I’m positive we can grab the brat during intermission!"

“So be it." Nervous twittering came from the rest of his minions, but Matthew ignored them. He kept his gaze trained on the man promising to bring him the girl who humiliated and shamed him in front of Gotham high society by naming his as her mother’s murderer. "If you fail this time..."

“I wo-won’t," the pathetic fool cried. "I swear to you that we’ll get the girl and bring her to you!”

“See that you do.” Matthew singled to a few of the men standing nearby. “Get him out of my sight.” 

They obliged without a word. 

As he expected. 

Refusal was not an option.

…

Receiving a call about a body at the nuclear power plant invoked a sense of déjà vu in Detective Ethan Tate. Seven years ago he had been called out here because of another body that washed up in one of the plant’s basins. He also found Commissioner Gordon here after he was shot by men working for Matthew Berkeley. The plant somehow looked uglier than it had back then. Ethan always expected it to smell when he first exited his vehicle. Either the odor was less pungent than he anticipated or he had grown used to it. He wasn’t positive he wanted to know which it was. 

Thick pipes and other conduits linked various tanks, pumps, storage units, and basins with each other. Thermal power stations drove a team of steam turbines connected to a series of generators that produced most of the electricity in the city. The complex had been designed so that it'd keep the power on in the city no matter what catastrophe might befall it. 

There sadly had been many such situations over the years. 

Gotham was nothing if not consistent. 

Many in the city viewed the excess discharge that flowed into the river beneath the city as an unfortunate byproduct of the station’s efficiency. Ethan didn’t agree. Not that his opinion mattered. People wanted safety and security and took it however they got it. _Even if it comes from corrupt officials and businessmen without their interests in mind_. 

He and his partner for that evening, Harvey Bullock, stared at the dark plant as they walked to where a man in a white jumpsuit waited for them. Bullock had become a detective before Ethan even thought about entering the police academy. He earned the nickname “Bulldog” not because of his physical appearance but from his tough, tenacious attitude and ability to close cases others would give up on. Ethan wasn't sure he'd have made detective if not for the gruff detective putting in a good word for him with the commissioner. He learned a lot about police work from Bullock and was a better detective because of him. 

Not that Bullock would agree if he said as much to him. 

It was mid-evening when they received the call about the body in the basin. Their shifts had rightfully ended but neither of them minded driving out to investigate what was going on. It wasn’t like either of them had any family to go home too. Ethan’s twin sister, Erin, was pulling a double at the hospital and Bullock was between girlfriends. Checking out a potential homicide made more sense than sitting at home and staring at the television screen while chugging a beer.

The plant's night supervisor, a sallow-faced man named McGurdy led him and Bullock to a long concrete trough filled with a deluge of water, ice, and bits of dirty snow. There was a slimy green film coating the surface — and a lifeless body stretched out atop the grimy metal grate above the basin. The body, that of a boy, wore only a pair of thin cotton shorts. If that wasn’t enough to scream at Ethan that something was amiss, the bruises covering his back and legs certainly did.

"We have bodies wash up here from time to time," McGurdy said. "Most often they’re kids playing this stupid game where they dare each other to swim from the first basin out to the bay. However…" He ran a hand over his balding head and blew out a breath that fogged the chilly air. "We've never had one wash up like this before. Not that I recall, anyway."

Ethan, though, could remember another body that washed up here years ago. His stomach knotted as that night came back to him. 

_He knelt to inspect the body. It was a young woman, twenty-five at the most. Bruises, some creeping black over others already that sickly yellow shade of healing, covered her back and thighs. More covered her chest and abdomen. Five bruises, all the size and shape of a large hand, circled her throat. The level of violence suggested the attack was personal, each blow meant to teach a lesson._

He had identified the victim as Megan Hayes. She had been an officer, like him. Graduated the academy at the same time he did. Partnered with Renee Montoya before taking a job with the commissioner. Her murder cut many in the department to the quick. Especially since they never brought her murderer to justice. 

"You move or touch the body?" Bullock tipped back his fedora as he crouched to stare at the boy, lips clamped around his ever present toothpick. "Or have any contact whatsoever with it?"

"We pulled the kid outta the basin." McGurdy jerked a thumb at a thin man retching nearby. "Tom there wanted to cover him with a sheet or something but I told him we shouldn't do anything until you guys had a chance to examine the body."

"You know the kid?"

"No, sir." McGurdy shook his head. "Never seen him before. Shame, too. Looks like he was a nice kid."

"He didn’t work for the plant then?"

Again, McGurdy shook his head. "No, sir. Not that I know, anyway."

A tingle shot down Ethan’s spine as he knelt to inspect the body. The boy was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Bruises crept over his upper and lower back, down over his thighs, and the back of his legs. Some were creeping black over others already that sickly yellow shade of healing.

He and Bullock gently turned him over. More bruises covered the kid’s face, chest, and abdomen. His hands attracted Ethan’s attention. They bore defensive wounds. The kid had fought and hard. _Like Megan_. Just like her, five bruises, all the size and shape of a large hand, circled his throat. Ethan’s stomach turned over at seeing the similarities between the murders. Each blow had been meant to teach the boy a lesson, to inflict the most pain possible, and make him beg his attacker to end his life. 

Ethan took a closer look at the kid’s battered face and froze as recognition washed over him in icy waves.

"What is it?" Bullock squinted at him. "You recognize this kid or something’?”

"Don't you?" Ethan felt sick to his stomach. "Take a good look at him and you'll recognize him."

“Son of a... it’s Brady’s oldest boy, Seth." Bullock’s face blanched. "What's the kid doing here? He was supposed to be spending his vacation with his grandparents down in Florida.”

Ethan shook his head. "I have no idea why Seth is here and not Florida." He ran a hand that wasn't quite steady over his face. "Someone should send a car to Brady’s. Make sure he and his wife are okay."

"I'm gonna let Jim know what’s going on…"

“Good idea.” 

Bullock walked a short distance away to make the call. Ethan continued to stare at the young boy who had his life cruelly taken from him. Helpless fury engulfed him. His throat tightened with grief and sorrow.

It took every ounce of his willpower to resist the urge to reach out and close Seth’s eyes. Same as he did the night he and Renaldo found Megan. _We’re going to get Berkeley this time_ , he vowed, fingers balling into fists. _He’s not going to get away with another murder._

Ethan would make damn sure of it. 


	18. Chapter 18

_Sleep_ , Raya thought as she stifled her third yawn in ten minutes, _has a power all its own_. Even the strongest of men were incapable of evading sleep forever. _Though Bruce certainly does his best too_. Alfred routinely laminated over his refusal to sleep. Raya often heard the butler imploring him to get some rest. Bruce’s response was to train himself to operate on as little as three hours of sleep, instead. 

While Raya admired and respected him for having accomplished such a feat, her brain screamed at her about how unhealthy it was to not get the recommended amount of sleep each night. Not that she had any room to talk. If she managed to get an hour some nights was a miracle. Even Dick went through periods where he couldn’t sleep without his dreams being interrupted by his memories of the past. 

Nobody was capable of avoiding sleep altogether. Or their dreams.

Hallucinations alone started after three or four nights without sleep. Chronic sleep deficiency also led to physical and mental health problems like heart disease, kidney disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, stroke, and depression. People who didn’t get enough sleep also had a higher load of beta-amyloid in their brains. Not sleeping put people at greater risk for fatal accidents. Most people who died from lack of sleep did so because their minds and bodies were so exhausted they couldn’t function correctly. _The few who do die_ do so _from lack of sleep typically suffer from a rare genetic degenerative brain disorder called fatal familial insomnia_. Most people suffered bouts of insomnia. 

Then there was Malcolm Whitly. 

Someone, like her, who tended to go three or four days without sleeping more than an hour or two at most. 

His reasons similar to hers. 

What exactly Malcolm’s nightmares were of, Raya didn’t know. She suspected, though, his father played a large part in them. _Same as mine does_. A tremor snaked through her hands, up her arms as a vase of roses tumbled across her visual field. The world faded away with the crack of gunfire.

A scream she did not recognize as her own filled her ears. Then her mother was falling, collapsing on the small table in the middle of the entryway, upsetting the vase of roses — always red roses — so they rained down on her as she fell. With everything she had left, her mother crawled towards the stairs, a bloody trail in her wake the only evidence of the violence perpetrated against her that night. Raya would live; all the rest of her life she would live with that image of her mother, bleeding and broken at the bottom of the grand staircase as the man who hurt her circled her, a vulture just waiting to peck at her carcass.

Too late. 

She’d always be too late. 

A nine-year-old desperate to protect her mother but a sixteen year old wise enough to know she couldn’t. 

Mind spinning, heart aching, stomach heaving, she pushed to her feet, and slowly made her way towards the stairs. Towards the only place she ever felt truly safe.

“ _Hello, Princess_.” Raya slowly turned to see _him_ walking towards her, his stride his customary prowl, his smile that one that spelled trouble, and a glint in his dark eyes that sent cold shivers down her spine. " _Miss, Daddy_?"

"You're not here,” she managed around the lump in her throat. “You're _not_ here."

" _Oh, but I am_." His tone was that fake, conciliatory one he used in public. " _I'm here to take you home with me_." A pause came before that sly purr she abhorred. " _Where you belong_."

Home. 

Home was her uncle's small house in the Narrows. 

Home was here with Bruce, Dick, Jason and Alfred at Wayne Manor. 

Home was a safe and happy place. 

Home was _not_ with this man. 

It’d never be with him. 

Raya turned to go into the library, but she only managed a step before his hand clamped over her arm, held her fast.

" _And where do you think you're going_?"

Raya couldn't speak, couldn’t make any sound at all. He reached out and brushed her dark curls from her face. It was only with an extreme effort that she didn't vomit the contents of her stomach all over his polished wingtips. Then he turned his wrist and those slender fingers with their manicured nails buffed to a sheen caressed her cheek.

Raya went cold to the marrow of her being.

" _Well, Princess_?" he questioned in that silky tone. The one that always warned her there’d be consequences for her defiance. " _Don't you have an answer for me_?"

Matthew Berkeley was everything she feared. 

The Clown Prince didn’t even terrify her as her father did.

Why should a clown scare her? 

She lived with Satan for nine years. 

Raya closed her eyes when he leaned forward to place a tender kiss to her forehead. 

A tear slithered down her cheek. His voice, his touch, it was draining away everything she had become in the seven years since he took her mother from her.

She felt herself fading away.

Felt Fenix disappearing into the dark recesses of her mind. 

" _I asked you a question, young lady. I expect an answer_." His fingers jerked her chin up. " _Look at me when I talk to you_."

Raya’s eyes opened to those dead-eyed, predatory pools. He was waiting for her to make a mistake. Just like always.

Then he’d strike. 

Like the snake he was. 

Raya stood as still as the lions adorning the steps of the Solomon Wayne Courthouse.

She made absolutely no sound.

She didn't dare.

His smile caused her heart to pound harder, faster. There were bands tightening around her head, around her chest. She struggled for control, for calm. She never wanted Bruce more than she did at that moment. He wasn’t home, though, and she wouldn’t call him despite their agreement she would if she found herself trapped in her memories. A heavy thud from the library snapped Raya back to herself. With a strength of will Bruce would’ve been proud of, she shoved her panic back — not away because that was beyond her capabilities— and made herself focus. 

Malcolm needed her. 

_He_ was in crisis. 

Raya couldn’t avoid her own neuroses and insecurities forever, though. The anniversary of her mother’s death was less than a week away. The closer to the date she got, the worse her own anxiety. To keep her mind occupied, she tossed herself into finding the link between Martin Whitly and Matthew Berkeley. Part of it was to exhaust her mind to a point where the dream weaver couldn't come for her. 

The other part was because she wanted to put Martin Whitly where he belonged: jail. 

She wouldn’t be able to get away with it for much longer. Alfred simply wouldn’t hear of her becoming any more like Bruce than she already was. Malcolm, on the other hand, was not as fortunate as her to have a case to occupy himself with. He had taken to the library since coming here, seeking to stave off his nightmares by immersing himself in the cornucopia of books the Manor offered. Raya had been pleased earlier to find him curled up in her favorite window bench with the weighted blanket she bought after work tucked around him. A glance at the book he was eagerly devouring provided her with an additional trickle of warmth. 

She suspected he’d enjoy _The Odyssey._ That’s why she chose to share it with him. Dick teased her, _mercilessly_ , she silently huffed about having a crush on Malcolm. He _maybe_ had a point there. That wasn’t the reason she shared one of her favorite books with Malcolm, though. Or why she chose to sit outside the library rather than going in and joining him. 

No, she sat in the hall because she could sense Malcolm was close to losing his fight with sleep. Twice during Detective Arroyo’s visit he drifted off. Each time he jerked awake, mumbling apologies, face suffused with embarrassed color, and eyes wild with a fear she understood all too well. Once Malcolm’s eyes closed, and stay closed, Phobetor would come for him. That was when the god of dreams and nightmares always chose to come. When the mind was vulnerable, control low, and his chosen victim incapable of fighting his hold.

When awake one could deny, simply shut their mind off, willfully ignore or otherwise guard themselves against the murky figure. Sleep was Phobetor’s domain and he reigned over it with glee. Malcolm’s night terror in the hospital the night before showed her the power Phobetor had over him. He would have run had he not been restrained to the bed, possibly injuring himself as he tried to get away from the shadow beings living inside his head. Desperate to keep him from causing himself further injury she had sang to him. It worked once to break the god’s grasp but there was no saying it would again. 

Raya was about to go down and get some tea when a terrified, “ _No_!” poured out of the library. 

She spun around just as Malcolm came tearing out of the room. Instincts honed over seven years of training had her sweeping his legs out from underneath him to stop his mad dash.Malcolm hit the floor but didn’t stay down as she hoped he would. He scrambled to his feet and would have continued his mad dash down the hall if Dick didn’t come from out of nowhere to grab him and hold him down.

“Night terror?” he grunted as Malcolm struggled in his hold. 

“Yes,” Raya confirmed as she straddled Malcolm’s legs. “You got him?” 

“Yeah.” Malcolm bucked and tossed his head, whining and whimpering like a wounded animal. “Geez, guy’s a lot stronger than he looks.”

Malcolm’s bulky clothes hid how muscular he actually was. _Small and lean_ , she mused as she grabbed Malcolm’s hands and held them between her own. The sort of physique perfectly suited to dance or martial arts. Not that she told Dick that. He gave her enough grief as it was about her interest in Malcolm. 

“No!” Malcolm howled. “No!”

“Malcolm,” she called gently. “Malcolm, it’s okay. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you.“ 

The eyes that met hers lacked any sort of recognition whatsoever. _Locked inside his mind with the voices_. Tears slicked his ashen cheeks and sweat dotted his upper lip and brow. She brushed at his damp hair and repeated her earlier words. 

“Malcolm, it’s okay. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you.“ 

Her voice seemed to register. Malcolm’s struggles slowed even though his breathing remained fast and uneven. His eyes lost some of the hunted, haunted look. Raya sent a relieved smile at Dick. 

“He’s com— oh!” she got out a second before Malcolm wrenched free of Dick’s hold to band his arms around her and cinch tight. “You’re okay,” she again assured him as he buried his head beneath her chin. “Dick and I are right here. We won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Tremors traveled from his frame to hers. His breath chilled the flesh wet from his tears. Raya placed her cheek against his crown and hummed as she rubbed his back in slow circles. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Jason mumbled, voice rough from sleep. “Mal okay?” 

“He’s okay,” Dick told him quietly. “Just had a bad dream is all. Go back to bed.” 

“More’n a bad dream from the looks of it.” 

“Malcolm has night terrors, Jay-bean.” 

Understanding dawned bright on Jason’s freckled face. _Why wouldn’t he, though_? Raya thought as another tremor rolled through Malcolm into her. Jason, like the rest of them, had his own share of bad memories. 

_Drug addict for a mother, abusive father, bullied by boys bigger than him, forced to take care of himself from a young age, scavenging to survive..._

The list went on and on. 

Raya figured Jason would return to his room as Dick told him but he surprised her when he shuffled over and settled on the floor behind her. _Offering comfort in his own way_ , she realized as his hand settled near where Malcolm’s fingers dug into her back. The boy who acted like he didn’t care about any of them, would be just fine without them, cared a whole lot more than he wanted them to know. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes but were sniffed back. Malcolm didn’t need her breaking down. Not when his heart beat a hard staccato against hers and his breathing was still fast and raspy. 

Dick’s arm curved around her shoulders, his hand settling near Jason’s. His other hand settled on Jason’s knee. Forming a circle around Malcolm. One of protection as well as acceptance. Of friendship. 

Three things Malcolm Whitly desperately needed. 

“I shall bring tea,” Alfred quietly announced as he passed them on his way to the stairs. “And hot chocolate for Master Jason.” 

“And some of those sugar cookies?” Hope filled Jason’s tone. “And maybe a few brownies?” 

“You shall have milk instead of hot chocolate then,” was Alfred’s reply as he descended the stairs. “And I shall bring up some candied ginger to help settle queasy stomachs.”

“Does anything shock Alfred?” Malcolm’s words vibrated into her. “Has anything _ever_ shocked him?”

“We haven’t found anything.” Raya met Dick’s amused gaze over the top of Malcolm’s head. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet?” Malcolm lifted his head to look at her. Curiosity mixed with fear, anxiety, and embarrassment on his face. “You mean you’ve been _trying_ to shock him?” 

“Well, Jason has set his mind to accomplishing it.” 

“Gonna do it, too,” grumbled Jason. “Just you wait and see.”

“I highly doubt you will accomplish your goal, Master Jason,” came from below. “But I certainly do look forward to your efforts.” 

The militant look in Jason’s eyes said he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. 

Not that Raya expected him too. 

If Jason Todd was like Bruce Wayne in any particular way it was that when he set his mind to doing something? 

He didn’t give up until he accomplished whatever it was. 

He was up against Alfred Pennyworth, though. 

And her money was on the staid and proper butler.


	19. Chapter 19

Matthew entered his palatial estate a short time after his rather... informative meeting. Of all those who worked for him, Andrei and his brother, Nikolai were the two he trusted above all others. He assigned most of his important tasks to the brothers. The rest he gave to Askalov. 

A man almost as ruthless as him. 

_Almost_. 

Normally, the gleaming marble, polished wood, and the cold, cold sparkle of crystal comforted him. 

Not tonight. 

He was too vexed by Rolonov’s betrayal. Andrei talking to Gordon wasn’t something he could allow. Not when it meant his part in the attempted kidnapping of the Whitly boy would be revealed. Along with a great many other things he didn’t want the old fool finding out about. 

_Andrei must be dealt with before he has the chance to tell Gordon anything_ , Matthew decided as he crossed the foyer to the grand staircase. Same as Brady and his nosy boy was dealt with. Seth had been found at the nuclear power plant. Brady and his wife? A smirk screwed up one side of Matthew’s lips. Well, those bodies would never be found. _Like those Whitly killed for me will never be found._ His clean-up man, the same one who helped Martin Whitly, always made sure to dispose of the bodies in places the cops nor Batman would think to look.

Every one of the decorations he passed on his way upstairs had been hand selected by his personal decorator. 

Simple, clean, elegant. 

As he preferred it. 

Once, the task of decorating Berkeley Hall for the holidays belonged to his Ellen. 

The majority of her… _choices_ had showed how truly unsophisticated she was. 

How lacking in taste. 

In style. 

Ellen had come from a decent enough family. No, the Kean’s were not as rich as his family or as connected socially, but they were high enough in Gotham’s social hierarchy that his marrying her hadn’t reflected too badly on him. 

He chose her for that reason. 

Unlike the majority of the women his mother thought were suitable matches for him, Ellen could be molded into the perfect wife. All she needed was his guidance, his instruction. He was older, wiser, understood how society worked. If he told her she needed to change her dress, her hair, well, he was only doing it to save her from public embarrassment. If her friendships were not ones he found acceptable, well, it was up to him to help her cultivate relationships with the appropriate individuals. 

He was saving her from ridicule and humiliation, after all.

The first year they were married Matthew taught Ellen how to look, behave, and when she pleased him by acting accordingly, she got a little treat. 

A diamond bracelet for not embarrassing him at a corporate dinner. 

Ruby earrings when she hosted a ball hailed by Gotham’s matrons as a success. 

The emerald and diamond choker when she secured him an invitation to the Governor's table.

Ellen became an asset to him socially, securing him invitations to homes that once had been closed to him. 

The only woman who could have accomplished more for him socially was Jessica — he refused to address her as Whitly — Milton. 

A union between the Milton’s and Berkeley’s would have given him the power and control he craved. 

He’d have been more powerful than Wayne, even.

_Finally._

Jessica chose to marry Martin Whitly, instead. 

A man who failed to rid him of his wife and daughter. 

Matthew fumed as he walked across the second-floor landing towards the east wing. All around him was something that belonged to Ellen: the statues of Aphrodite and Adonis by the stairs, the vase they bought in Paris on their honeymoon, the portrait he commissioned of her right before her death.

Her smell lingered on the air, both intoxicating and infuriating. Matthew could hear her whispering to him from the shadows, begging him to release her from his castle.

He wouldn't let her go, of course.

Ellen belonged to _him_.

Legally, morally, and eternally.

She promised him her love, loyalty, and her life. 

In return, Matthew gave her the moon, brought her to live in his palace and made her his Queen. 

Ellen betrayed him, denied him the one thing he wanted most: a son to carry on the Berkeley name. Love turned to fury, a raging flood he nurtured with acrimonious hatred. She owed him for failing to do her duty. For nine years he made Ellen pay for her inability to give him what he desired above all else. Matthew believed she finally learned her lesson. Her place. She did everything she could to please him. Her mistakes became few and far between. 

A week before Christmas he informed her they were going to attend the ballet with the child. At last minute, Matthew told Ellen he needed to work late but that Doctor Whitly would pick her up at Grand Central and drive them to the ballet.

Where they’d disappear.

Why?

Because he found out his daughter encouraged Ellen to tell Gordon about his deal with Roman Sionis. 

She who gave Gordon the map with the locations of the bombs he stashed beneath Gotham. 

Then the little brat convinced Ellen to turn custody of her over to Gordon. 

_That_ , Matthew decided, jaw clenching, _had been the final straw_.

He had needed to teach his daughter a lesson in consequences.

Martin Whitly had been the solution to all his problems. 

The good doctor was supposed to squire Ellen and his daughter off to wherever it was he took his research subjects. 

As Whitly called them, anyway. 

Matthew thought he came up with the perfect plan. 

He bought tickets to _The Nutcracker_. 

Drove them to the train. 

Arranged for Martin to pick them up. 

However, something happened once they met him at Grand Central. Martin decided he couldn’t kill his wife and daughter. Why? Matthew turned to the portrait on the wall outside the entrance of his office. _Because you look just like your mother._ Martin Whitly refused to kill his daughter because she was a carbon copy of his Ellen. As his son, Malcolm, was his. 

_Not for long_ , Matthew mused as heavy footsteps below drew his attention. He moved back to the railing and watched as a dark-skinned man dressed in navy trousers and a white button down, unbuttoned at the throat, came strolling into view. If Matthew didn’t know better he’d have thought Askalov coming home from a late evening at his club.

Not any of his clubs, of course. 

One needed to have impeccable bloodlines and a bank account with nine zeroes minimum to gain entrance to his social hemisphere. This man was far from being one of the entitled who ruled Gotham high society. _Which is what makes him so useful to me_ , Matthew mused, a small smirk twisting one corner of his mouth.

"You find out if Gordon has talked to Andrei?"

Askalov glanced up at him. "Not yet."

"No, you haven’t found out if he has talked or no, he hasn’t talked to him yet?”

"No, I haven’t been able to find out."

Anger surged but Matthew quickly banked it. Askalov wasn’t one to fail him. Not without having a good reason for why he couldn’t complete his mission. 

"And why not?" He curled his hand around the railing. "Couldn’t you reach your contact in the GCPD?”

"Donnelly wasn’t allowed near the interrogation room they’re holding Rolonov. Bullock and Tate are keeping everyone away.”

"Gordon is taking no chances." Matthew stared off into the distance. “I want you to get rid of Andrei.”

“And Nikolai? Do you want me to take care of him, too?"

It was on the tip of Matthew’s tongue to say yes. If Andrei was willing to betray him, so could Nikolai. 

However, he had his doubts. 

"No.” 

One of Askalov’s dark brows arched. “No?”

“Bring Nikolai to me,” Matthew commanded in a low rasp. “I want to speak with him before deciding if he will meet the same fate as his brother.”

Askalov gave a slight nod. “Is there anything else?" he asked.

"Not at the moment." Matthew turned. "You can go."

He didn’t wait to see if Askalov did as he ordered. 

He knew he had. 

…

Andrei Rolonov was perfectly content to sit in an interrogation room and be watched by Bullock and Tate. He could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t find himself leaving the GCPD in a bodybag long as the detectives stood guard. Matthew Berkeley’s reach was extensive but it didn’t extend to either man sitting across from him. That didn’t put him the clear, however. A number of men in Gordon’s command were on Berkeley’s payroll and would have no problem whatsoever with garroting him, putting a bullet in his brain or sticking a knife in his back. Andrei was no fool, even if his older brother, Nikolai, thought him one. 

His decision to turn on Berkeley put a price on his head. One didn’t simply give their two-weeks notice to a man like Matthew Berkeley. No, termination of employment came about in only one way: death.

He was willing to die if it meant his family would be rid of the twisted son of a bitch. Gordon burst into the room with the detective from New York a few steps behind him. Berkeley wanted Arroyo out of the way so he could get to the Whitly boy. Not that he shared that information with him or Gordon. 

_Not yet, anyway_ , he conceded as Gordon faced him.

"Rolonov.”

"Commissioner."

Gordon took a seat in the chair Tate vacated for him while Arroyo stood next to Bullock. “I hear you have some things you wish to share with us.” 

“I do.” Andrei sat back and eyed Bullock and Tate. “Without them in the room.”

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Bullock scowled. “So, just say what you gotta say and be done with it.” 

"Harvey.” Gordon’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "You and Tate go and get a cup of coffee while Arroyo and I talk with Rolonov."

“Jim.” Bullock’s face suffused with righteous anger. “I don’t trust Rolonov. He works for...”

“Go, Harv.” Soft, but firm. A general fully in command of his troops. “I’ll fill you and Tate in later.” He softened his order with a smile. “Have a bottle ready. Thinking we’re all gonna need a drink before this night is through.”

Bullock grunted and flashed a warning look at Andrei. "We’ll be right outside the door if you need us.” He lumbered to the door. “Wanna be sure none of his friends can try and help him.”

Andrei almost laughed out loud. 

He had no friends here. 

None who were going to help him, anyway. 

Gordon waited until the two departed before again looking at Andrei. “Is what you wrote in your statement true?"

“Every word.” 

"You have proof Matthew Berkeley ordered the Whitly boy tranquilized and brought to him?"

"I was there when he placed the call to DeCosta and told him what he wanted him to do.” He pushed the pad of paper he asked Bullock for after being brought into the interrogation room across the table. “I also hired the team that was to take the boy from the hospital once DeCosta dosed him."

“Why does he want the Whitly boy?”

“Because of his daughter.” 

It wasn’t the total truth but it also wasn’t a lie. Matthew Berkeley did want the Whitly boy because of his daughter. He just didn’t add that why he wanted the kid was because of the boy’s father failing to kill the girl seven years ago. That bit of information he planned to use to cut himself and Nikolai a deal. Preferably one that’d see them do time in a location outside of Berkeley’s extraordinary reach. 

Preferably another country.

"Why are you coming forward now, Andrei?" Gordon’s bushy eyebrows lowered over the top of his eyeglasses. "What is that you hope to gain from this?”

“Freedom.”

“Freedom?” Gordon exchanged looks with Arroyo. “Freedom from what?” 

“Berkeley.”

“You’ve worked for Berkeley for years,” Arroyo said, stepping forward. “Why do you want your freedom from him now?” 

Andrei lifted his eyes to the NYPD detectives. “Because Nikolai and I only worked for Berkeley in exchange for his help in bringing our wives here from Russia.”

“He helped you with filling out the immigration paperwork?” 

“More like he brought them into the country on one of his cargo ships.” 

Gordon’s eyes blinked wide with dawning realization. “He’s threatened to report them to immigration if you don’t do as he says.” 

“No.” Andrei’s lips compressed into a thin, hard line. “He will have them killed if we do not do as he says.”

Gordon’s jaw clenched. “We will not let that happen.” 

“Do you mean Batman won’t?” Andrei’s lips twitched. “He’s the one you will ask to help rescue them from where Berkeley has them, isn’t he?”

“We will ask Batman to help us with rescuing them from Berkeley, yes,” Gordon said with a nod. “But you also have your brothers in blue to help you.”

“My brothers in blue.” Andrei barked a soft laugh. “You have no idea how many of my _brothers in blue_ work for Berkeley.”

“Tell me who they are.” Gordon flipped to a blank page in the legal pad he wrote his statement. “There’s no blue wall of silence here, son. I don’t want corrupt officers working for the GCPD.”

Ferreting out corrupt officers had caused Gordon all sorts of grief over the years. The more cops he and Batman took down, the more cropped up. Andrei was willing to do his part in cleaning out some of Berkeley’s scum long as it netted him what he wanted. 

“Hayes, Eckhert, Palmer.” All three decorated officers with over two decades of service beneath their belts. He locked eyes with Arroyo. “Then there’s Carter, Maschovitz, Delgado.” 

“Maschovitz is Bureau Chief.” Shock and dismay suffused the detective’s face. “He was promoted last year after Donovan retired.”

“That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Andrei said, lips screwing up into a smirk. “There are more I can name.” 

_Cops, politicians, businessmen, doctors, lawyers, sports celebrities_. 

Dozens of individuals connected not only to Matthew Berkeley but to a criminal ring operating right under their noses in New York City. 

All of them for sale if his price was met. 

“And you’re willing to just hand these names over?” Arroyo’s tone was skeptical. “In exchange for what?”

“Freedom, as I said.”

“That’s it?” 

Andrei nodded. “I shall define what that freedom entails once my family is safe.” He looked at Gordon. “Is that agreeable to you, Commissioner?”

“I’ll take it under advisement.” Gordon looked at Arroyo as he got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

They left, leaving Andrei alone with his thoughts, and with Tate to watch him. 


	20. Chapter 20

The rooftop of police headquarters became Gordon's personal refuge many, many years ago. It was the only place he could go for some peace and quiet that didn’t require him to physically leave the precinct. Gordon felt he did his best detective work up here because he could concentrate without being interrupted by one of the dozens of officers under his supervision. He also could avoid the dozens of phone calls, emails, faxes, emergency meetings, and other bureaucratic bullshit that came with being commissioner. 

Gordon freely admitted he wasn’t the typical police commissioner. He didn’t spend his days locked up in his office. He didn’t even have the standard commissioners office or retinue of underlings to handle the majority of day-to-day police affairs. Gordon chose to not be like his predecessors. He was a cop and he continued to act like one despite holding the highest position there was in the department. He still went out to crime scenes, investigated suspects, questioned eyewitnesses. 

The job didn’t stop simply because he became the man in charge. 

No, the job changed _because_ he was the man in charge.

Gordon saw the corruption riddling the department when he joined the GCPD twenty years ago. He made it his mission to ferret out those cops. Gotham had enough problems with the likes of the Joker, Scarecrow, and Mad Hatter. They didn’t need the men and women meant to protect them being less than the best. His decision to stop corruption and get rid of those cops caused him plenty of headaches over the years. 

He didn’t regret his choice one bit. 

Far as Gordon was concerned those who didn’t uphold the values that came with the badge didn’t deserve to wear those badges. He decided the fate of many of those who came under his scrutiny right here on top of the GCPD. Gordon liked to think of the roof as his own bat-cave. Of course, it lacked all the fancy tech and gadgets he suspected the real Batcave had. The only gadget he had up here was the spotlight with its infamous logo sitting a few feet from him. 

A phone that wasn’t a phone to call a man who became his strongest ally in his quest to not only clean up Gotham, but its police department, as well. 

Gordon hadn’t imagined working alongside Batman much less becoming friends with him. It had been no secret he didn’t trust the caped crusader when he first came on the scene. He seemed more like a menace than a help at the time. _He still can be seen as a hazard_ , Gordon mused as the cold air ruffled his hair. _He’s just a beneficial one._

Especially when it came to those like the Joker. 

Batman also helped by doing a lot of the legwork for him. Detective work was equal parts patience and luck. Especially when it came to the types of cases, and criminals his unit frequently handled. The caped figure beside that infamous spotlight shifted to face him and the only other man up there for their clandestine meeting. 

“Do you believe Rolonov is telling the truth?” 

“If it was Nikolai sitting downstairs in interrogation, I’d question if he wasn’t pulling some sort of fast one. Andrei?” Gordon shook his head. “No. I believe him.” 

“He works for Berkeley.” 

“The worst thing he’s ever done is work for Berkeley.” Gordon handed him the file he pulled before coming up here. “His record is spotless otherwise. His cases have never been flagged for review, he’s never been called out for using lethal force to bring down a suspect, and his closure rate is one of the best in the department.”

“An honest cop despite working for a man with as many skeletons in the closet as Berkeley has?” Gil’s breath fogged the air. “That’s surprising.”

“Andrei’s always been a straight shooter.” Something Gordon respected since it was how he liked to think himself. “Doesn’t talk unless he has something to say. Never played games. Working for Berkeley is the only blight on an otherwise impeccable career.” 

“And he has a reason for why he worked for Berkeley.” A breeze stirred the ends of Batman’s cape. “If he’s telling the truth.” 

“The Triad was operating a trafficking ring a few years ago.” Gordon handed Batman a second file. “One of the cargo ships they used to smuggle girls into Gotham is one Berkeley is owner of.”

“Was this around the time Rolonov started working for Berkeley?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why didn’t you arrest him with the rest of the Triad?” 

“Because owning the company wasn’t considered proof of involvement according to the DA.” A common occurrence when it came to Berkeley. “Same as we couldn’t charge the man with the murder of his wife because the gun came back to a man with a history of assaults, murders, and robberies.” 

Gil’s brow furrowed. “I thought his daughter witnessed him murder his wife?” 

“Raya was considered an unreliable witness because of her age and the trauma she endured.” 

Not that he or the caped figure beside him especially wanted Raya to testify in open court. 

“Malcolm had to testify against his father in open court.” Gil let out a pained sigh. “He quit talking right after that.” 

Gordon’s brow furrowed. “He didn’t talk at all?” 

“No.” A small smile appeared through his goatee. “It took months to get him to say more than a few words.” 

“How did you get him to talk?” The question sounded innocent enough. Gordon knew better, however. The Dark Knight was obliquely searching for answers about the boy handed into his care by their girl. “Has he been seeing a therapist?”

“He’s been seeing the same therapist since his father’s arrest.” Gil brushed snow off his shoulders. “It was Doctor Le Deux who recommended we let him see his father to get him to talk.” 

“Doctor Le Deux?” Batman rumbled. “Gabrielle Le Deux?” 

“Yes.” Gil stared questioningly at the Dark Knight. “Why? Do you know her?” 

“She’s a professor at Gotham University.” Gordon exchanged looks with Batman. “Raya took her class this quarter.” 

“Your niece is in college?” 

“She is, yes.” Gordon couldn’t be prouder of the fact both his girls were in college. “Raya started the fall quarter with Barbara, in fact.”

“Malcolm finds that out and he’ll bug us to let him graduate early to get away from those bullying him.”

“We only agreed to let Raya graduate if she applied to college and got a job.”

“Jessica wouldn’t agree to that, unfortunately.” Gil grimaced. “Working could prove beneficial to Malcolm. Help channel some of that restless, nervous energy he has.” 

“Raya chooses to work in defiance of her father.” 

A quizzical frown tugged at Gil’s brow. “What do you mean she works in defiance of her father?” 

“It’s her way of dealing with the abuse she endured at the son of a bitch’s hand.”

“That she continues to suffer,” came Batman’s dark reply. “Berkeley continues to emotionally abuse Raya.” His electric gaze shifted to Gil’s. “As Martin Whitly does Malcolm.” 

“Why?” Frustration burned in Gil’s voice. “That’s what I don’t understand. They’re kids! What exactly does this do for them?”

“It’s a matter of control for Martin Whitly,” Batman replied. “He keeps Malcolm in his control by manipulating him.” 

“Is that why Berkeley wants him dead? Because he can’t control Malcolm?” 

“His motive for killing Malcolm is revenge.”

“Revenge for what, though?” 

“Failing to kill his wife.” Batman turned. “And his daughter.” 

And with that he was gone. 

…

They stretched out on the huge sectional in the living room to watch television after spending two hours training in the cave. It was comfortable and familiar and helped ease the tension dogging Dick the last few weeks. 

For now, anyway. 

Dick in no way believed things were over. Far from it, in fact. Still, being able to have a quiet night at home was nice. Four people, though, were absent: Bruce, who was out on patrol, Jason, who was asleep in his room, Malcolm, who was in the library, and Alfred, who was down in the cave. Raya had fallen asleep midway through an episode of _Law & Order_, a fact which amazed Dick given her avoidance of anything that constituted _rest_. 

Not that he didn’t understand why she abstained from sleep. Raya was like Malcolm in that her family carved wounds in her heart and soul that had not healed despite all the love they’d been given. Family wasn’t something Dick ever had to struggle with. His parents, as well as the rest of Haly’s Circus had been everything to him. His folks were as much an influence on him as Bruce. He thought about his mother and father every time he donned his armor and went out with Batman, recalling things they taught him, words of wisdom they imparted or other lessons they instilled in him and which helped him be the best Robin he could be.

Something he wouldn’t have become if not for the girl currently curled up against him. Raya was in attendance the night his parents were murdered. She had come over to him, offering the comfort and solace he desperately needed on what was the absolute lowest moment of his life. She stayed with him while his parents were loaded into the coroners van, attended the simple funeral the circus held, even sat in the courtroom as his fate was being decided. Raya loudly protested his being taken to an orphanage over remaining with the circus. Not that the judge cared for the arguments she and her uncle made on his behalf. Dick’s lips quirked as he recalled how she called the judge who presided over his case a “spineless buffoon” before telling him he wouldn’t stay in the orphanage long. 

“ _Bruce will petition the court to become your guardian_ ,” she promised, face shining earnestly. “You won’t stay in the orphanage long.”

True to her word, Bruce came to get him a few weeks later. 

Despite being broken by what her father had done to her mother, her uncle, and her, Raya opened her heart to give him the thing she had not had until she came to Wayne Manor: a home.

A home that wasn’t on wheels had been a foreign concept to Dick. There were still times where he didn’t feel Wayne Manor was home. Not in the way it was to Bruce, Alfred, Raya, Jason, and Tim even. It was just the place he came to live after his folks died. Where he trained to become a crime fighter. Where he resided when he wasn’t away on Titan business. 

“ _Home is not a place_ ,” Dick recalled her once telling him. “ _It’s people._ ” 

A light flipped on inside Dick as realization for what Raya was attempting to do finally dawned. _Grayson, you idiot!_ he groaned. _What she’s been up to has been staring you in the face this whole time and you totes missed it!_ Course, part of that was because he had been preoccupied with trying to figure out why Berkeley wanted Malcolm dead, and what his connection to Doctor Whitly was. 

Now, though, he could see the larger scale plan Raya had in mind. 

She was about one thing, after all: home and family. 

Family didn’t start with blood to her, however. It came from love. Family also meant nobody was left behind or forgotten. Something each of them experienced before coming to live here at Wayne Manor. All of them came from broken families. Bruce, him, and Jason had been left behind in the wake of their parents death. Tim was frequently forgotten by the Drakes. 

And Malcolm... 

Well, he had been left behind by his father, his needs forgotten, and his identity stolen from him. 

_That’s why she suggested bringing him to Wayne Manor_. It wasn’t solely because she harbored a crush on him, had a desire to train him or wanted to protect him from her father. It was because she wanted to give him back what had been stolen from him. 

_Shoulda realized it sooner_ , he thought as he lightly skimmed his fingers over the back of Anna’s head. The kitten stretched but did not give up her perch on Raya’s hip. 

“I’ll get you in the morning for keeping this close to your chest," he told the girl sleeping for a change. "Just you wait. _”_

One Bruce in the family was enough. 

No way would he allow two.

Even if one was cuter and cuddlier. 

Dick fell asleep with a smile. 


	21. Chapter 21

Malcolm trudged his way towards the library after a — in his opinion — spectacularly disastrous breakfast. The thought of dry toast even now had his stomach violently cramping and his mouth filling with bile. Nobody criticized him for not touching any of the food Alfred set on the table. If anything, everyone seemed to understand he wasn’t able to eat any of the truly amazing things the butler prepared. Miserably embarrassed by his body’s inability to do something normal like eat scrambled eggs and toast, Malcolm sat staring at his empty plate. 

A hand settled on his shoulder in much the same way Gil’s would on the back of his neck. Offering silent support and comfort. A glance at Mr. Wayne — he hadn’t gotten comfortable with calling him _Bruce_ , yet — revealed the same understanding in his eyes there’d be in Gil’s if he was there. 

“ _Try some tea_ ,” he suggested. “ _It’ll help settle your stomach_.”

He then went back to his newspaper. A cup of tea materialized next to Malcolm’s hand, the minty smell wafting up to ease some of the tension twisting his insides into fiery knots. He didn’t need to look to know the tea came from Raya. Alfred brought the pot of tea after setting a plate of fluffy eggs, crisp bacon, and roasted potatoes in the middle of the table. Jason tucked into the food with gusto, earning an amused look from Bruce and a soft word of caution to “chew his food throughly” from Alfred.

Dick and Raya went over math equations while the later slid pieces of fruit onto her mostly empty plate. Even Jason snuck a piece of toast onto her plate while she was distracted. The Wayne household operated differently from his own he realized as he sat there and quietly watched the interplay between them. Mr. Wayne didn’t chastise him for causing a disruption to his household the night before. He also didn’t criticize him for falling asleep in the library instead of the perfectly nice room given to him for his use while he stayed with them. 

Nor did he order him to eat something or get upset when he didn’t. The only thing Mr. Wayne said before departing the table a few minutes later was, “ _Alfred has a book full of recipes for sensitive stomachs. He will happily prepare things that might be easier on your digestion_.” 

Malcolm went to protest, not wanting to put the butler out more than he was already, but Mr. Wayne simply squeezed his shoulder and assured him it was no bother before exiting the room. Despite Mr. Wayne’s assurances, Malcolm expected Alfred would be perturbed when he found out he hadn’t touched any of the food he made. To his surprise, and profound relief, the older man said nothing except: “ _Perhaps we shall have a nice soup for lunch_.” He gathered the dishes and placed them on a tray. “ _A hearty chicken noodle, in fact_.” 

Malcolm swore to do his best to eat some of the soup the butler promised to make. _It should be fine_ , he reasoned as he crossed the wide foyer with its array of decorations to the next hallway. _Jackie makes chicken noodle all the time and it doesn’t make me sick._ In fact, chicken noodle soup always made him feel better after one of his episodes. 

_How did Alfred know that, though_? Malcolm paused in the middle of the foyer, brow furrowed. _Did Alfred call Jackie and ask her for some suggestions on what to make for me?_

It wasn’t unreasonable, he decided as a thud come from somewhere upstairs. Malcolm glanced up, hoping to see Dick or Jason come racing down the stairs. 

Neither one did. 

Raya didn’t come skipping downstairs, either.

He found himself most disappointed by that. 

Malcolm freely admitted Raya, Dick, and Jason were the one aspect of the Wayne household he couldn’t figure out. The trio weren’t like any of the kids at the latest boarding school his mother enrolled him in. They didn’t mock him for being the son of a serial killer. They didn’t make fun of him for being short, thin or “pasty-faced” as some of the boys at school liked to call him. They didn’t tease him about his eating. _Or lack there-of_ , he corrected, grimacing. None of them brought up his running out of the library, shouting at the top of his lungs, and violently fighting against them the night before. Nor did they stare at him with pity, fear or any of the other things he commonly saw in people’s eyes after they witnessed one of his night terrors. 

The three had circled him — Dick holding onto him from behind, Raya straddling his legs, and that image had yet to fade from his mind, and Jason to the right of them — while he fought the memories the shadow things used to torment him. They continued to shield and protect him until he managed to extract himself from the shadow demons grasp. The question Malcolm found himself asking as he made his way to the library was _why_. Outside of Gil, Jackie, Ainsley, and his mother, when she wasn’t passed out from whatever mixture of alcohol or drugs she had taken, nobody offered him that kind of comfort and support. Not when he was in the middle of a night terror, anyway. 

He had a private room at school because the boys in his class refused to share one with him. Malcolm hadn’t wanted to room with anyone after what happened at his last boarding school. His back still bore the faint marks from the belts Brandon and his friends used to teach him about what “his place” in their school was. He didn’t mind having his own room since it gave him a safe space he could go to when he was having a bad day. His own room also allowed him some defense against those who made fun of him for his night terrors. 

_Well, them_ , he amended as he passed a room with the door slightly ajar, _and all the other things they tend to make fun of me for_. 

The verbal taunts and insults were things he learned to tune out after much practice. 

Being called shrimp, small fry, lollipop, fairy, hurt. Malcolm didn’t deny it didn’t. He died a little inside each time one of the boys called him by one of their special pet names. Those names, though, hurt a whole lot less than fists to his stomach or being slammed into lockers did. Malcolm was about to enter the library when soft music drifted down the hall. _Danse Macabre, Op. 40_ , he realized, slowly turning. _Whose listening to that_?

It definitely wasn’t Mr. Wayne or Alfred. Mr. Wayne left before breakfast was finished. Alfred was in the kitchen. He didn’t see it as something Jason or Dick would listen to. _Raya then_? It was a possibility given her adoration for Anna Pavlova. Curious, Malcolm moved back down the hall. The music poured out of the opening, tingling along his spine, and shivering deep within his soul. Memories, bittersweet rather than dark and morbid, rose up to lure him into the past.

“ _La Danse Macabre_ ,” his father whispered to him as dancers dressed in an array of costumes filled the stage, “ _is an old legend_.” 

“ _It is_?” Malcolm’s eyes blinked wide as he stared at the dancers in their array of costumes. “ _Bout what_?” 

“ _Well, it’s, ah, about Death, who appears at midnight every year on Halloween.”_

_“He does_?” Malcolm frowned as he stared at the shrouded figure lurking behind the others. “ _Why_?”

“ _So he can call the dead from their graves to dance for him while he plays his golden fiddle_.” 

“ _He plays a golden fiddle_?” Excitement streaked through Malcolm at the prospect of seeing such a fantastical instrument. “ _Really_?” 

“ _Well, it’s more a violin than a, uh, fiddle_.” A smile appeared through his father’s thick whiskers. “ _But he will definitely play it and the skeletons will dance for him until the rooster crows to signal the dawn.”_

_“Then what happens_?” 

“ _Well, they will all return to their graves until next Halloween._ ”

Malcolm had been five at the time and unaware how the father regaling him with such a fantastical tale was a man who also dealt in death. 

Twenty-three bodies to twenty-four orchestra instruments. 

_Diabolus in Musica._

The Devil in Music. 

Only, Martin Whitly didn’t murder his victims to music. At least, Malcolm didn’t think he did. His memories were too fragmented, too convoluted. He did recall his father listening to the radio sometimes while reading over patient files. Nothing like this, though. No, his father preferred Jim Croce over that of Saint-Saëns's. Memories surfaced, none of them longer than a second in length, and set to his father’s favorite song, _Operator_.

“ _Malcolm, you shouldn’t be down here_.” His father’s hand settled on his shoulder, gentle but firm. “ _You need to go so I can work.”_

He slowly turned as a voice whispered near his left ear, _operator, well, could you help me place this call_?

“ _My boy, we’re the same_.” A smile wreathed his father’s face as he bent his head to look at him. “ _Never forget that. We’re the same_.”

Malcolm’s hand spasmed against his thigh as that breathy voice billowed across his ear. _See, the number on the matchbook, is old and faded._

His father’s hand guided his towards a wriggling blob. “ _You make an incision in the_ _chest wall here between the ribs…_ ”

Panic was an icy poker jabbing through his belly. _She's living in L.A. with my best old ex-friend Ray_ …

Malcolm almost jumped out of his skin when a voice, _Jason’s_ , he realized, interrupted the tidal wave of memories. “Raya won’t mind if you go in and watch her practice.” He spun around to face the eleven year old, his heart pounding so hard against his ribcage he was surprised Jason couldn’t hear it. “Sorry.” Contrition filled Jason’s face. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.” 

“Not your fault,” Malcolm assured him as tremors rocketed from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. “I was just lost in thought.”

More like he was lost in the past. He didn’t tell Jason that. While he liked him — and Dick and Raya — there were things he wasn’t comfortable telling them about. 

_I’ll lose what friendship I have with them if I do._

“Musta been some deep thoughts.” Jason’s eyes studied him with a shrewdness Malcolm would have expected from someone twice his age. “I said your name like five times.” 

“I didn’t hear you.” Malcolm offered what he hoped was a sheepish smile and waved a hand towards the room behind him. “I was listening to the music.”

“I don’t like it.” Jason’s nose wrinkled. “No lyrics. I mean, how do ya know the story without lyrics?”

“The music is the story.”

Jason’s head cocked to the side. “You’ve heard the song before?” 

“During a performance I attended with my parents, yes.” 

“Raya danced to it on Halloween and is gonna dance to it again New Years Eve.” 

“Raya dances?” Surprise and an excitement he couldn’t mask tinged Malcolm’s voice. “She’s a dancer?” 

Part of him hoped she did ballet. Not because he had any secret desire to dance with her. _Well, I would like to dance with her_ , he amended, fingers trembling against his thighs. He’d just cut his toes off before admitting it to the smirking eleven year old in front of him. 

“Raya’s the bestest dancer in her class.” 

A smile, a real one, tugged at Malcolm’s lips. “Not biased, are you?” 

“Me? Nah.” Jason flashed him a lopsided grin. “She is the bestest dancer, though. Don’t care what anyone says.”

“What about Raya?” Malcolm looked over his shoulder, saw the shadow moving on the wall. “What does she say?”

“Pft, you can’t ask her.” 

Malcolm frowned. “Why not?” 

“Cause she says she’s mediocre.”

Malcolm blinked. “Mediocre?” He didn’t think there was anything Raya Kean did that was _mediocre_. “She thinks she’s only a mediocre dancer?”

“She’s goofy like that.” Jason nodded towards the open door. “Go on in and see for yourself, though. She won’t mind. Honest.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t.” No matter how badly he wanted to go in and watch her dance to the _Danse Macabre_. “I don’t want to interrupt her during practice.”

“Trust me.” Jason’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You won’t be interrupting her.”

“How do you know?” 

“Cause Dick’s in there bugging her.”

Malcolm’s head cocked to the side. “Why’s he bugging her while she practices?” 

“Cause her hollering at him means she’s okay.” Soon as the last word left his mouth, he flinched. “Forget I said that, will ya?” 

Not that Malcolm could. 

“Raya’s not okay?” His brows drew down over the bridge of his nose. “What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?”

Was it him? Had he said something? Hurt her the night before? Guilt bubbled in his already sour stomach. Burned hotly in his throat.

“Uhm...” Jason ducked his head. “I’m not supposed to say anything to you about it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Cause.” 

Malcolm’s hand spasmed against his thigh as a plethora of reasons played through his mind. All of them about him. “Cause why?”

“Cause she don’t want you focusing on her. Not after…” he didn’t finish that statement. He didn’t need too. Malcolm could perfectly figure out what Jason meant.

“She shouldn’t suppress how she feels because of me.”

“Focusing on you is helping her.”

“How?”

“Cause it’s keeping her mind off stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Yanno, stuff.” Jason rubbed the back of his head. “This time of year ain’t easy for her.” 

“Why not?”

“Uhm.” Jason hunched his shoulders and dug the tip of his sneaker into the carpet. “Cause of what happened to her mom.”

“Her mom?” Malcolm’s head spun as he tried to piece together what Jason was saying. It was difficult to do given how none of the pieces were lining up. “What about her mom?”

“Okay, look, you didn’t hear this from me, all right, but her mom was killed like seven years ago.”

Malcolm’s eyes blinked wide. “Her mom was killed?” 

Why hadn’t Raya mentioned that to him? _Easy_ , a voice simpered from the shadows of his mind. _She doesn’t trust you anymore than you do her._ Malcolm ignored the voice. 

“Yeah.” Jason’s fingers curled and uncurled at his sides. “It was like the week before Christmas.”

“Is that why Raya came to live here at Wayne Manor?”

“Yeah.” Jason peeked at him from between his bangs. “Commissioner Gordon signed temporary custody of her over to Bruce while he was in the hospital.”

“In the hospital?” A sliver of unease rolled through Malcolm. “For what?” 

“From being shot three times in the back.” 

Another tremor rattled through him as Malcolm pieced together what Jason was telling him in a roundabout way. “He’s hurt everyone important to her.”

“Yep.” Jason nodded. “Now, he’s trying to go after you and it’s got her all twisted up.”

“He won’t hurt me, though,” Malcolm said with more assurance than he felt. “Batman won’t let him.” 

“Neither will Raya.” The intensity in Jason’s eyes shook Malcolm to the core. “That’s why Batman agreed to you coming here to live with us. He figured it’d keep her from doing something stupid.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like confronting my father,” came from behind him. “Which I am under express and clear orders to not do.” 

“Batman ordered you to not confront your father?” Malcolm asked as he slowly turned to face Raya. “Why?” 

A shrug accompanied, “Because he’s Batman.” 

“That’s the only reason?” 

Not that any other reason was necessary, he supposed. Batman was an intimidating force all by himself. Malcolm could hardly fault those who found themselves cowed while in his presence.

“Well, he also has Bruce and my uncle Jim on his side.” Raya’s lips quirked at the corners. “And your detective Arroyo, too.” 

“ _Gil_ ordered you to stay away from your father?” That surprised Malcolm. “Why?”

“Because he wants to see my father finally get what he deserves.” Raya turned back into the room. “And yours if we can find the link that connects them.” 

“My father‘s in Claremont Psychoatric,” Malcolm pointed out as he slowly followed her. “He won’t be getting out at any point.” 

Not unless he breaks out. 

Something Malcolm feared with his entire being. 

“Martin Whitly is sitting in a cushiony cell in a psychiatric hospital,” Raya replied as another song started to play. _The Sorcerers Apprentice_ , Malcolm realized, excitement streaking through him. “He needs to rot in a prison cell for what he’s done.” 

“Or in Arkham,” Jason helpfully supplied as he walked over to sit on the floor by Dick. “Preferably in a cell with that pasty-faced freak.” 

“I’d pay to see Martin Whitly against the Joker,” Dick said, head tipped back against the wall. “Think he’ll find he’s not in control of the situation really quickly.”

“Joker will pretend Whitly is in control of him until he rips the illusion away.” Raya executed a flawless arabesque. “Now, the Scarecrow and Poison Ivy would take control of him immediately.” 

“My father’s greatest fear is losing power and control.” 

“His greatest fear is losing his hold over _you_.” Raya’s words were laced with velvet steel. “His one desire is to see you pick up where he left off.” 

“To become a killer like him.”

The eyes that met his over her shoulder burned the same way Fenix’s did. In fact, if Malcolm didn’t know better, he’d think Raya was Fenix. 

That was ridiculous, though. _Wasn’t it_? A voice — one of the dozens — in the back of Malcolm’s head warned him to not dismiss his suspicions. 

“Enough chitchat.” Dick clapped his hands. “Back to practice.” 

“Taskmaster.” Raya pirouetted towards him. Her ability to stay on-pointe for more than a few seconds, the smoothness of her turn, and the way she extended her leg behind her all spoke of years of dedication and practice. 

Malcolm found himself envying her. If he continued dancing after his father’s arrest, he might have the same control Raya did. The same confidence and poise. He gave up dancing, though. 

He gave up a lot of things. 

All because his father was a serial killer. _No more_ , he decided as Raya did a _grande jeté_. _I’m not giving up anything or anyone else._

Especially the three people his age who didn’t think him a freak. 

Or a monster. 


	22. Chapter 22

“Bruce!” A pleased smile curved Jessica’s lips as she entered her living room to find the billionaire standing by the fireplace and looking at the pictures atop the mantle. “What do I owe this pleasure?” 

“I’d be lying if I said it was just to see you.” Bruce walked over to place a kiss to her upturned cheek. “Even though, seeing you is reason enough to come.” 

It fluttered in her blood. The words, the tone, the look in his eyes as he stepped back. Jessica couldn’t remember the last time a man flattered her that wasn’t after her money. Romantic entanglements were but one of the things lost to her after Martin was revealed as having killed twenty-three people. Many doors once opened to her had been shut, the members of New York’s high society not wanting to associate with her for fear that the blood on Martin’s hands would coat theirs. As if there were no skeletons in their own walk-in closets.

“Still the charmer, I see.” 

“I speak nothing but the truth, I assure you.” 

Jessica waved to one of the chairs before heading to the sideboard. “Can I interest you in a drink?” 

“Coffee, please,” Bruce said as he took a seat. “I drove myself into the city since I didn’t want to leave the kids alone. Not with Malcolm still in danger.” 

That reminder soured Jessica’s mood. As everything associated with Martin did. Even locked away in a psychiatric hospital, the man still managed to disrupt their lives. 

“Is Malcolm settling in?“ she questioned as she poured coffee into a cup. “He hasn’t been a problem, I hope?”

“He’s settling in well, actually.” 

“Really?” Jessica glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide with surprise. “No night terrors?” 

“He had one last night.” Bruce waved a hand dismissively through the air. “Nothing to worry about.”

Jessica didn’t agree and chose to say so.

“Malcolm can be quite violent during one of his night terrors.” She had received quite a few bruises while trying to help Malcolm through one of his night terrors. Even Gil had gotten scratched and punched during a few of Malcolm’s more violent episodes. “I trust he didn’t harm anyone?”

“He didn’t harm anyone, Jessica,” Bruce assured her with a smile. “Raya and Dick were awake at the time it happened and were able to help him through the episode without incident.”

“I’m sorry he disrupted your household.” She poured a dollop of cream into the coffee, recalling from memory how he preferred it. “Malcolm can sometimes go days without having a night terror. Then...” her voice trailed off.

“Jessica.” Bruce’s tone was gentle. “Malcolm isn’t the only one of my children to have night terrors.” 

“Theirs are not as severe as Malcolm’s are, I imagine.” 

“Malcolm’s are a lot more complex, yes, but nothing we cannot handle.”

“I have him in therapy.” Jessica poured herself a cup of coffee despite desperately wanting scotch or gin. “You can see how well it’s working.” 

“He’d be doing far worse if he wasn’t in therapy.” 

Jessica silently conceded Bruce had a point as she picked the cups up and crossed the room to where Bruce sat. Malcolm had made huge strides while under the care of his therapist. He was no longer mute, he did well in school, he managed to eat a little bit, and to her profound relief started dating in the last year. His night terrors, tremors, anxiety and paranoia issues, as well as his need to see his father were the only issues Doctor Le Deux couldn’t get him to overcome. 

“You mentioned you hadn’t come to New York just to see me.” She handed him one of the cups before taking hers over to the chair opposite his. “Why did you come?” 

“Malcolm mentioned at breakfast he has an appointment with his therapist next week.”

“Lemme guess,” she said, stifling a sigh, “he wants to cancel it?”

“I want to move the appointment to Wayne Manor, actually.” 

Jessica didn’t like it, but she could see the logic in having Doctor La Deux go to Malcolm instead of him traveling into the city to see her. 

“I will call her office and arrange it so you can schedule appointments.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Was that the only reason you came to see me?”

“Of course not.” Bruce smiled at her over the rim of his cup. “I also wanted to invite you and Malcolm to a performance of _The Nutcracker.”_

Pleasure warmed her cheeks. “You have tickets to the ballet?” 

“I have a box here, Gotham, and Metropolis.” 

Jessica’s lips curved. “I didn’t imagine you as a man who enjoyed the ballet.”

“Well.” His chuckle sent shivers up and down her spine. Heat pooled in her belly that had nothing to do with the coffee. “I wasn’t a man who enjoyed the ballet until I became the co-parent of a ballerina. Attending dance recitals, taking Raya to performances, and becoming active in the dance school she attends changed that.” 

“Malcolm did ballet.” Jessica waved towards a picture on the mantle. “He started when he was five. A prodigy his instructor called him. Until....” 

“His father’s arrest?” 

Jessica nodded. “One of the many things that man stole from him.” 

“We can help him take some of those things back, Jess.” 

“How?” Her brow crinkled. “Malcolm has been blackballed from all dance schools here.” 

“Not in Gotham.” Bruce set his cup on his knee. “He could go to school with Dick, attend ballet if he wants with Raya, be a regular sixteen year old.” 

“Until people learn his father is a serial killer.” Her bitterness stung the air. “Then they, too, will turn their backs on him.”

“Raya’s father murdered his wife and father. He almost killed Commissioner Gordon. He would have killed Raya had Batman not arrived and swept her to safety.“ Bruce’s eyes met hers. “That’s not including the people he might have had your ex-husband kill for him.” 

“Was Raya ostracized because of what her father did?” 

“Yes, she was.” A muscle ticked in Bruce’s jaw. Jessica’s only clue as to how tight a control he was exerting over his temper. Not that she blamed him. Her own rage at society’s treatment of her son tended to burn as hot as the fire burning in the fireplace. “I taught her to not care what people think of her. The ones who matter are those who see her for who she is and not for what Matthew Berkeley did.”

“Malcolm can’t escape his father or what he did.” 

“Yes.” Bruce leaned forward in his chair. “He can.” 

“How?”

“We teach him who Malcolm Whitly is. Give him his own identity. Show him he’s not his father.”

Jessica’s fingers trembled around her cup. “I have watched Malcolm for signs that said he was turning into Martin.”

She feared seeing the sweet boy who loved ballet and playing the piano turn into the murderous monster his father was. “I have read books, watched documentaries.”

“Jess.” Bruce set his cup on the coffee table before walking over to take her hand. “Malcolm is not his father. He’s more like you than Martin Whitly.”

“Do you think so?” Jessica gave him a watery smile. “Do you really think he’s more like me than that despicable wretch?”

“I do.” Bruce’s fingers squeezed hers. “All I see when I look at Malcolm is you, Jess.”

Jessica’s heart fluttered with the one thing she had not let herself feel since Martin’s arrest: hope.

For the first time in six years Jessica saw the light at the end of the tunnel. A life free of Martin Whitly was suddenly possible. For her, and even more importantly, for Malcolm. 

“Why don’t we discuss Malcolm attending school in Gotham over dinner?” she suggested. “I already decided not to send Malcolm back to Deerfield Academy after some boys took his things and burned them.”

“I’d like that,” Bruce said, smiling. “I’d like that very much, in fact.”

This time when her heart fluttered, Jessica didn’t question it. She simply embraced it.

...

“I’m tellin’ ya, Babs, Raya’s got a crush on Malcolm.” Dick turned the chair in front of his desk and straddled it. “I’m talking a major crush here.”

“ _So_?” Barbara Gordon stared at him from the other side of the computer screen. “ _Malcolm is better than some boys she could have a crush on_.”

“Like Elijah Thomas, you mean?”

Barbara sniffed as her eyes shifted to the left. _Reading a textbook while checking traffic cams and the police bands for anything going on_ , Dick mused, lips trembling.

“ _Elijah only pursued her to win a stupid bet_.”

“A bet?” All serious now, Dick folded his arms across the back of his chair and regarded his girlfriend through narrowed eyes. “What bet?”

“ _Elijah and his buddies bet on which of them could thaw out the Ice Princess_.”

Surprise rolled through Dick. He hated that nickname. It quickly turned to fury, a raging flood of anger he’d work off in the gym after he finished talking with Barbara.

“Why didn’t she tell me about this bet going on?”

“Because she knew you’d have Conner corner and threaten all three within an inch of their lives if they didn’t call off their stupid bet.” Barbara’s eyes twinkled with a mixture of humor and mischief. “So she called Conner and had him threaten them within an inch of their lives if they didn’t call off their stupid bet.”

Dick snorted a laugh. “Either way achieved the same result.”

Even if it deprived him of the satisfaction of seeing the fear on Elijah’s face after Conner finished threatening him.

“ _That’s_ _why I say let Raya have her crush.”_ Barbara reached offscreen _,_ returned less than a second later with a silver travel mug with GSU in big black letters across the front. “ _It’s about time she has a crush on a guy, honestly._ ” 

“I know it is.” Dick rest his chin on his hands. “I just don’t want to see her heart get broken.”

Not when she was trusting it to someone for the first time.

“ _Having our hearts broken is part of growing up_ ,” Barbara pointed out before taking a sip of what Dick knew would be coffee. Cream, two sugars. He ducked his head to hide his smile. “ _She has to learn how to navigate those waters at some point or she will never have a healthy relationship with anyone_.” 

“I know she does. It’s just... outside the brief thing she had with Conner, she’s never shown an interest in anyone.” 

“ _Malcolm‘s different from the boys at Gotham Academy_.” Barbara pushed her spectacles higher up on her nose as she typed something on her keyboard. “ _He’s not a spoiled rich boy without a brain in his head_.”

“You realize not every guy at Gotham Academy is a jerk,” Dick said, tone dry. “I’m not.” 

“ _Well_... _you have your jerky moments_.”

Dick flinched. “I know I do,” he admitted with a sigh. “I’m sorry for them.”

“ _Don’t be,”_ she said, eyes twinkling. _“Nice to know you’re human_.”

“We were discussing Raya having a crush on Malcolm.”

“ _Mhm_.” Her smile, like her tone, was smug. “ _Changing the subject_.”

He was. He admitted it. To himself, anyway. No way was he going to admit it to her.

“Why do you think she likes him?” 

Not that Dick couldn’t see why she liked Malcolm. The guy was a bit intense, somewhat awkward and shy, but he had a sharp mind and a dry wit.

“ _He enjoys many of the same books and movies she does, plays chess, guitar and piano, loves ballet_.” She took another sip of coffee. “ _Plus, they share having monsters for fathers in common.”_

“They understand each other.”

“ _There’s that, yes,”_ Barbara agreed with a nod. “ _They don’t have to feel weird about their issues around each other.”_

“For once in their lives they can relax and just be themselves.”

“ _One a little more than the other_.”

“You realize being alike isn’t exactly a recipe for a successful relationship, right?”

“ _Well,”_ Barbara said over the rim of her cup, _“who says they will end up in a relationship_?” 

“You don’t think they will?” One of Dick’s brows arched. “Why not?” 

“ _I never said they wouldn’t_.” 

“But you just said...” 

“ _I never said I thought they would or wouldn’t end up in a relationship._ ” A smile brought out her dimples. “ _Besides, isn’t he seeing someone, anyway_?” 

“They broke up from what he said.” 

_Which hadn’t been much_ , Dick mused silently as Barbara turned away to grab something from her printer. He used to think only Bruce and Raya kept secrets in vaults more secure than Fort Knox. 

Then he met Malcolm Whitly. 

A guy who put both to shame. 

Not by choice, however. 

The majority of secrets Malcolm had were fragments of memories. Things that connected to events he didn’t understand and places he couldn’t remember being at with people he didn’t recognize. 

“ _You don’t believe they broke up, do you_?” 

A grin tugged at Dick’s mouth. “What makes you say that?” 

“ _I know you, bird boy_.” 

“You just _think_ you know me.” 

Out of everyone in his life, Donna and Barbara probably knew him the best. Raya edged them out slightly since she had known him before he was Robin and was there after he donned the mask. 

“ _I know you don’t believe Malcolm simply broke up with his girlfriend_.” 

“I don’t,” he admitted, grinning ruefully. “I have a feeling their breakup wasn’t so much a breakup as it was him learning she used him for her own purposes.” 

“ _What makes you think that_?” 

“This morning he talked about people pretending they’re his friends but really used him to win a contest or gain admission into some exclusive club.”

Anna surprised him by jumping up on his desk. He reached over to scratch the cream colored kitten behind one sable ear as he wondered if Raya was still outside.

“ _If you can get me her name, I can make some discreet inquiries, and find out what club she belongs too_.” 

“Raya already figured it out.” Dick smiled as the purring kitten flopped herself over in front of the keyboard. “Bruce made a few calls before driving into New York to see Malcolm’s mom.”

Barbara’s lips twitched. “ _What did he threaten them with_?” 

“He didn’t.” 

One eyebrow arched. “ _Who did he call then_?”

“Detective Arroyo and then Commissioner Brannigan.” 

Barbara hummed a low, speculative sound deep in her throat. “ _So, they were_ that _sort of club then_.” 

“Yeah.” 

Dick, as well as Barbara, was aware that a number of such clandestine clubs existed here in Gotham. Shutting them down wasn’t easy. Those who joined those types of clubs were of legal consenting age. Understood what exactly they were signing up for. The club Malcolm’s girlfriend used him to gain admission too was comprised of underage adolescents and individuals over the age of twenty-one. 

That was a problem. 

A big one. 

“ _Doesn’t change the fact she used Malcolm to get into this club_.” Anger hardened Barbara’s face. “ _That’s gonna add to the already deep-seeded trust issues he has_.”

“I think that’s what pushed him to suicide.” 

“ _I have a feeling Raya was the final push there, Dick_.” 

“Raya?” Dick couldn’t mask his surprise. “Why her?”

“ _Malcolm was in crisis_ ,” she said softly. “ _He needed his masked hero and she didn’t come save him_.”

Dick closed his eyes, more a long blink than anything. “That explains why she’s been more agitated than usual.” 

“ _Raya_?” Barbara’s brows arched at his nod. “ _She’s been more agitated_?” 

“I thought it was cause of what happened at Bellevue.” Anna got up to rub against his arm. He obliged her by running a hand over her silky fur. “She was on edge before then, though. Sleeping less than usual, eating only Skittles and spice drops, hyper-fixated on figuring out the connection between Berkeley and Martin Whitly.” 

“ _But you think it’s guilt over not going to Malcolm_.”

“Yeah.” 

Barbara folded her hands atop her travel mug. “ _Well, I guess you only have one option here, bird boy_.” 

“Oh?” One eyebrow arched. “And what’s that?” 

“ _You’re gonna have to get her to talk_.” 

Dick blew out a breath. “I had a feeling you’d say that.” 

“ _Where is she at the moment? Brooding in the Batcave_?” 

“No.” Dick chuckled softly. “She’s walking with Malcolm in the back garden.” 

“ _Really_?” Barbara made a soft speculative sound deep in her throat. “ _Well, maybe you won’t need to get her to talk, after all_.”

“Why?” 

“ _Think about it, bird boy_.” 

A frown creased Dick’s brow. “What does... oh,” he breathed out as realization dawned. He stared at her smugly smiling face. “I thought you said they wouldn’t end up in a relationship?” 

“ _Nobody says they will end up in a relationship_.” Her lips curved, warm with amusement and affection. “ _But nobody says they can’t enjoy dancing on those lines, either_.” 


	23. Chapter 23

Raya wandered the back gardens of Wayne Manor with Malcolm. They slowly passed beneath arches and arbors, by stone benches, and around the small fountain Bruce hid among the winter roses Alfred planted after she and Dick came to stay at the Manor. The stone path they walked along was lined by a river of shrubbery and flowers, some tender with winter, some reigning supreme. It wasn't just the blooms, though, oh no. A sea of green also peeked out from amidst the powdery white. 

There was so much texture and color here that each spill or shimmer of pink or white, red or lavender only added more wonder to an already magical place. The massive garden with the ground covered in a thin layer of fresh snow gleamed beneath the night sky. Hedges and branches sparkled like diamonds. Icicles sparkled from the railing of the gazebo at the end of the stone path. 

A winter wonderland. 

All theirs at the moment.

Malcolm broke the silence to ask, “Why did you continue to dance after your mom died?” as they passed under another archway. 

Raya considered her answer as she trailed her fingers over the _Helleborus_ hybrid fittingly named, ‘Winter Sunshine.’ “I love dancing,” she finally said. “It makes me happy.” 

“It doesn’t remind you of... _him_?” 

It wasn’t like she needed to ask who the _him_ was. There were only two him’s in this world he could be referring to: Matthew Berkeley or Martin Whitly. The context of his question confirmed it was her father instead of his. 

“Dancing used to remind me of my father.” 

“Used too?” He glanced at her, one eyebrow arched. “It doesn’t now?” 

“No.” She slowly turned to face him. “Now it reminds me of Bruce.” 

“Really?” Curiosity brought out the green in his eyes. “How?” 

“I think of Bruce while I’m dancing. The pride on his face, the joy, the excitement. When I start to hear my father chastising me for not executing a move perfectly, I recall Bruce’s words of encouragement. His support. It chases away the bad memories and allows me to enjoy what I love.” 

“I wish I could do that.” Malcolm’s hair fell across his face as he looked down. “I wish I could replace my father’s voice with Gil’s.” 

“You can.” 

He shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried. My father’s voice just gets louder. More demanding.” 

Raya ached to reach out and take Malcolm’s hand. To offer him the comfort he desperately needed. She didn’t, though, because of how sensitive to being touched he was. Something she learned when she touched him earlier and he almost leapt from his skin.

“You make Gil’s voice louder. You make it drown out your father’s.” 

He peeked at her from between the silken strands covering his face. “What about those who knew your father murdered your mother? Are you able to drown out their scorn? Their rejection?"

 _“_ Bruce shelters me from as much of it as he can but there are still times I hear the whispers.” 

Last year at the annual Wayne Ball being one of those times. Her enjoyment of the evening was dampened by those gossiping in the shadowy confines of the many alcoves the ballroom had. The whispers started the moment she entered the ballroom, in fact.

 _“Poor child_ ,” she heard one old crone whisper to another. “ _How long has it been since Ellen was murdered?”_

 _“Six years_ ,” the other replied.

 _“Can you imagine that it has been that long_?” 

_“Who is this Ellen you are speaking of_?” someone asked. “ _I don't think I've met her_.”

 _“Surely you've heard about the Berkeley murder_?”

 _“Why, no, I haven’t,”_ that person replied. “ _I wasn't living in the city at the time_. _What happened_?”

_“Oh, my, it was really quite the scandal!”_

_“Happened a few days before Christmas, in fact.”_

_“Ellen Rae Berkeley was murdered while her daughter was asleep in her bed.”_

_“Heavens! Do they know who did it?”_

_“Robber, it was said.”_

_“No wonder poor Matty withdrew from society.”_ The old crone sniffled. “ _Why that poor man! Mourning his wife all these years later…”_

Then came the whisper that hurt most of all. 

“ _Well, that ungrateful brat certainly didn't help matters when she tossed him over for Wayne and that filthy mongrel he took in_. _Imagine! Disowning your own father for a wastrel_!”

“How do you deal with it?”

“I remember what Batman told me the night he rescued me from the men my father hired to kill me.” Raya took a seat on a stone bench. “To rise.”

“Rise?” His skepticism reminded her of Jason. As did his dubious look. “Really?”

“It has been the most important lesson I’ve learned.” A lesson she imparted now because she thought he could use it. “We rise, we fall.” 

“I don’t see how that helps against bullies.”

“Ah, but you see, there is when we must remember that lesson the most.”

“Why?”

“Why do we fall?” The same words Bruce asked her on that first morning in the cave’s training area. “So we learn how to get back up. So we learn how to try, try, try again. And," she said, dropping her voice an octave, “so we learn to never give up. So learn to fall, Malcolm. Because then, and only then, will you learn how to rise."

Malcolm’s face didn’t indicate he recognized the voice she used to speak as being Fenix’s. She didn’t know if he was not paying attention or had a better poker face than she believed.

“You didn’t go away to school, did you?” 

“No, I was privately tutored the first year after my mom’s death here at Wayne Manor. So was Dick. It was Bruce’s way of protecting us from those who’d say mean, hurtful things for ridiculous reasons.” 

“Mother wouldn’t agree to that.” His bitterness stung the air. “She wanted me to be normal. To go to school, make friends, do things other kids my age did.”

“Dick and I are normal.” _Well, normal enough for two kids who spend part of their time in armored suits and masks_ , she amended silently. “That year helped us by allowing us the time to deal with our losses. To come to terms with the changes in our lives. When we started school that next fall, we were able to contend with the teasing and snide comments some of our classmates felt compelled to send our way.” 

“How?” 

“Well, even the biggest bullies fall for Dick’s charm and witty banter.” 

“What about you?” He had inched closer, Raya noticed. If she moved her hand just a smidge she could brush her fingers against his. She didn’t dare, though. Not until he gave her a sign that said he’d welcome her touching him. “How do you deal with those who bullied you?”

“If I couldn’t talk the problems out with them, I ignored them. If that failed? I didn’t invite them or their family to any of Bruce’s parties.”

“Isn’t that a form of indirect aggression?” 

Pleasure trickled through Raya at his challenging her method of dealing with bullies. Malcolm possessed a keen mind. He debated her that afternoon on justice reform with a clear, concise argument. He was even able to beat her at chess, something only Bruce and Alfred could do. Now this. It was as if Christmas came early for her.

"It is, yes,” she agreed with a nod. “However, Bruce and Uncle Jim forbid us from getting into physical fights unless there is no other option.”

Even if they had no choice but to fight didn’t mean they were off the hook once they got home. Bruce took them to task more than once because of a fight they hadn’t managed to avoid. 

“Have you?” 

“Gotten in a fight?”

“Yes.” 

Malcolm’s eyes went big as saucers. “ _You’ve_ gotten in a fight?” 

Raya couldn’t stop herself from grinning. “I’ve been in a number of fights over the years, actually.” 

“You have?”

“Mhm.” Bruce would give her triple Fenix homework for her smug tone. Fighting was never acceptable. Even when they were out on patrol they were supposed to exhaust every possible nonlethal method they had before engaging in a fight. “Won quite a few of them, too.” 

Needed help from her cousin, Barbara, and Dick to win a few of them, but they weren’t losses. 

Not in her mind, anyway. 

Even the times when she needed to call on Batman weren’t losses. 

_Losses_ were counted in terms of not accomplishing the end goal. 

Not putting away the bad guys. 

Not preventing people from being hurt. 

Asking for help showed prudence. 

Responsibility. 

Maturity. 

“I wish I knew how to fight like Robin and Fenix.” Malcolm’s sigh clung to the air. “Maybe the kids at school would leave me alone if I could fight back.”

Excitement trickled through Raya, but all that was in her voice was cool calm. “Do you want to learn how to fight like them?” 

“Mother won’t let me take martial arts.”

“She doesn’t need to know.”

“How wouldn’t she know?” A frown wrinkled Malcolm’s brow. “Who’d teach me without telling her?”

“I will.”

He gaped adorably at her. “ _You_ will?” 

Raya nodded. “Yes.” She looked forward to it. “Martial arts helps me as much as ballet, actually.”

“How?” 

“It’s a way of expending my energy and working through my anxiety.”

“Can I practice with you?” Malcolm’s fingers brushed hers. A subtle request. “When you practice your ballet?”

“I’d like that.” Raya curled her fingers around his. “We can have Alfred pick up some things for you tomorrow when he drives Bruce to the office.” She smiled then. “Now, let’s go back inside before Alfred sends Jason or Dick out to get us.” 

“Surprised Dick didn’t join us.”

“I told him if he did that I wouldn’t look over his English paper for him.”

Malcolm’s lips twitched. “That’s not nice.”

Raya harrumphed. “I love him, I do, but I wanted a chance to talk without him interrupting.”

“You wanted…” Malcolm visibly swallowed. “You wanted to be alone? With _me_?”

“I did.” She squeezed his fingers. “Yes.”

Malcolm ducked his head,. His fingers twitched in hers. A sign of how nervous he was. “Can we watch a movie?” he asked in a breathy voice.

“Sure.” She ignored the tingle of heat as she slid her fingers between his. “Even let you pick what one.” 

He darted a look at her but didn’t meet her eyes. “Are you sure?” 

Raya found his shyness sweetly endearing. Not that she’d tell _him_ that. She was willing to flirt with the lines between friendship and romance but that was all she was willing to do.

“Long as you don’t pick _Silver Bullet_ or _American Werewolf in London,_ I’m good.” 

A small grin tugged at Malcolm’s lips. “Not a fan of werewolf movies?” 

“No.” Her nose wrinkled. “Dick loves them but they terrify me.” 

“Me too,” he admitted. “How about we watch _Troy_ or _The Island,_ instead?”

“Sure,” she said as they headed inside. 

...

“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’m glad you’re managing to make friends while you stay with the Wayne’s.” Gil looked up from the file he was reading, an eyebrow raised in silent question. His wife merely held up one finger. “We’ll see you tomorrow around five, okay? Love you.” 

She hung up as Gil closed the file and placed it on the coffee table.

“Sounded like he was in a better mood than he was when I left him the other day,” he said. “I was almost tempted to bring him home because of how unhappy he seemed.” 

“Well, he’s doing fine now,” Jackie replied. “Took a walk in the garden a little while ago with the young lady... what’s her name?”

“Raya,” he told her. “Her name is Raya.”

“He took a walk with Raya before they watched a movie while eating grilled cheese and french fries.” 

“The kid actually _ate_ something?” At her nod, he smiled. “On his own?” 

“Well, he said he suggested the grilled cheese all on his own so I assume the answer’s yes.” 

“That’s a _definite_ improvement over a few days ago.”

“He just needed time to settle in.” Jackie placed the cordless back on the cradle before walking over to join him on the couch. “Remember how he was the first time he stayed with us?”

“How could I forget?” 

Malcolm had sat huddled on the end of the couch, Gil’s elderly cat, Gordita Bandita comfortably snuggled up in his lap. It took nearly two days before they got the kid to leave that spot for more than a bathroom break. 

The kid had still been nonverbal then. 

Shied away from almost all touches. 

Didn’t eat anything that wasn’t a sucker or red licorice whip. 

Refused to do anything but sit there on the end of the couch and pet Gordita Bandita. 

_Not that that fat bandit minded getting all that attention_ , he recalled, a wistful smile curving his lips. 

Gordita passed away last year, taking a piece of all their hearts with him. Jackie suggested going to the shelter with Malcolm and picking out another cat but fate — or one fat bandit — decided to intervene. 

Gil's eyes strayed to the armchair closest to the fireplace. To the bundle of fur curled up in the jacket he tossed there after getting home. The black kitten ended up becoming part of their family three months after Gordita passed away. He and Jackie had been taking a walk when they came across some neighborhood kids throwing rocks at the straggly kitten. Without giving him a chance to pull his badge, Jackie marched up to them, and read them the riot act. The hint of a smile curved his lips as he recalled the shame-filled expressions on the boys faces after she got done with them. She then scooped up the pathetically mewling kitten and waltzed home with him. 

_Zorro_ , as Malcolm decided the kitten should be named, made himself right at home. 

“Malcolm came around eventually.” Jackie set a hand on his knee, squeezed it gently. Quiet comfort and support. Both needed after the stressful day he had. “It just took time and patience.”

“I recall you also bribed him with grilled cheese.”

“It worked,” she said, tone smug. “Didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it did.” Grilled cheese was the one food they could get him to eat when he wouldn’t touch anything else. “Is that why he called? To assure us he was settling in?”

“I think he was getting ready for bed and decided to call to say goodnight.” 

“He’s getting ready for bed?” One of Gil’s brows arched. “How did they manage to get him to do that?” 

“One happens to be a sixteen year old girl.” Jackie’s eyes glittered with mirth and mischief. “Sixteen year old girls can get sixteen year old boys to do lots of things.” 

“That so?” Amusement squashed his exhaustion. “Maybe we should hope this particular sixteen year old girl sticks around once all this is over and Malcolm comes home.”

“I have a feeling our sixteen year old will make sure of it.” Her head tipped against his shoulder. “Raya Kean’s not like the girls Malcolm tends to meet.” 

“No, she’s definitely not like the other girls Malcolm has gone out with,” Gil agreed, curling his arm around her shoulders. “She’s unlike any sixteen year old I have met.” 

_And it’s not because of her being a masked crimefighter_ , he added silently. Not that Jackie had any idea that _Fenix_ and _Raya Kean_ were one and the same. He hadn’t told her about Malcolm being rescued by two teenaged superheroes. _Not once_ , he realized, _but twice_. The teen heroes not only saved Malcolm that night at Bellevue, they also stopped him from getting beaten to death at the docks. 

He hadn’t told Jackie about that, either. His reasoning was less about trust and more about not knowing how to tell her. _Batman & Robin_ were stories told in newspapers and comic books when they were growing up. They, along with the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, the Justice League were not people Gil expected to encounter in real life. They were characters for God-sake! Characters that a week ago entered his, as well as Malcolm’s, lives. 

_If not for Robin and Fenix being at Bellevue_... Gil didn’t bother finishing that thought. The two heroes were there, they got Malcolm out before Berkeley’s men could find him, and took him to Gotham where he was now under the protection of their grim mentor. 

“I have a feeling being around a young lady who likes Malcolm for Malcolm will do a lot to help his self-esteem.” 

“Especially after the emotional hell his last girlfriend put him through.” 

There was a sting of bitterness in Gil’s words, and he could taste it same as Jackie. He couldn’t help it, though. Wayne calling him to tell him about the sex club Malcolm had been used to gain admittance too left a sour taste in his mouth. Gil was under no illusions when it came to the kid and sex. He was well aware Malcolm was active sexually. They had _the talk_ after he came home from a date with buttons missing on his shirt, lipstick on his collar, and his neck covered in hickeys. Jessica reacted to her son’s behavior by driving the kid over to his house, and ordering Gil to explain to her son how his behavior was simply, “ _not acceptable_.” 

Gil earned one of her withering looks after reminding her about being Malcolm’s age once and necking with her boyfriends in the backseat of their cars. 

“ _That is not the point_ ,” Jessica bit out, eyes flashing with ire. “ _I simply will not have this family embroiled in any more scandal. We have barely survived what that man has done to us_.” 

“ _We can’t stop Malcolm from experimenting sexually,_ ” he said with as much patience as he could muster at three in the morning. “ _All we can do at this point is make sure he knows how to be safe_.”

“ _I do not want my son becoming a father before he can drive a car, Gil_.” 

“ _I’ll talk to him_ ,” he promised. “ _Make sure he knows to use protection._ ”

Gil had done exactly that. 

He just hadn’t known he should also talk with Malcolm about sex clubs and the types of people who frequented them. 

It was a conversation they’d have once things were back to normal.

Along with a number of other things he had been neglecting to talk with the kid about. 

“I was a bit unsure about Malcolm living with strangers,” Jackie admitted with a little sigh. “I figured we’d be going to pick him up after a few days. After talking with him, though, I feel a lot better about it.” 

“Having a sixteen year old girl under the same roof helps apparently,” he couldn’t help but tease her. “Especially one who sees Malcolm for Malcolm.” 

And not as Malcolm tended to see himself. 

Which was as a mirror image of his father. 

_They’re not the same_ , he thought as Jackie reached for the remote and clicked on the television. _They’re nowhere near the same._

Malcolm wasn’t a killer like Martin Whitly. 

He never would be. 

Not on his watch. 


	24. Chapter 24

“Rae.” Dick took the towel from around his neck and tossed it into the laundry hamper in his closet. “You can’t train Malcolm.” 

“Why not?” Raya huffed as she hugged his pillow to her chest. “Don’t you think I can train him?” 

“No, I know you can train him,” Dick said as he ran his fingers through his still damp hair. “You’ve done a great job at helping to train Jason.”

“Then why don’t you think I can train Malcolm?” 

“‘Cause Bruce won’t approve.” 

“How do you know he wouldn’t?” 

“It’s Bruce, duh.” Dick reached into his dresser for a t-shirt. “He’s never gonna agree to you training Malcolm like he trained us.” 

“I don’t plan on training him as Bruce trained us.” 

Dick glanced at her from over his shoulder. “You don’t?” One brow arched. “Then how do you plan on training him?” 

“Teaching for strength, speed, and stealth mainly.” 

“You’re thinking of teaching him Krav Maga?” 

“More a mix of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai, and Krav Maga.” 

A grin tugged at Dick’s lips. “Gee, that’s only _your_ three favorite styles.”

“Along with Hapkido, Capoeira, Tai Chi and Taekwondo **.”**

**“** Why not teach him those, instead?” he suggested as he tugged his shirt over his head. “They’re all excellent styles with similar principles that will help someone like Malcolm.”

“I know they’re good styles.” Raya hugged his pillow tighter. “I just think Malcolm needs empowerment as much as he does enlightenment at this point.”

“I think he needs enlightenment more than empowerment.” Dick flopped down on the bed beside her and reached for the remote to his stereo. He didn’t normally listen to music as he slept but Raya did. He had loaded the tray with her favorite albums before going to take a shower because he suspected she’d end up in his room. He selected a CD now and hit play. He put the remote back on the nightstand before looking at her. “Guy’s wound tighter than you and that’s saying something.” 

“I know he is.” Raya lifted troubled eyes to his. “Tonight was better but I’m still worried he’s going to snap under the pressure. Do something harmful to himself.”

Given what the guy had done the last time he snapped under pressure, she had reason for concern. “Getting him to dance with you will help burn off some of that restless energy he has. Plus, you can sneak in different lessons while at it.”

“How did you know I was planning on using ballet to train him?”

He folded his arms behind his head and sent her a smug look. “I know how your mind works.” 

Raya made a _ffff_ sound. “You only _think_ you know my mind works, buzzard brains.”

“I know you’ve been plotting out how to go about training Malcolm for weeks.” 

She harrumphed while rolling her eyes. “Like you haven’t had the same thoughts?” 

She had him there. “I did, yes,” he admitted with a wry grin. “I agree with you that his knowing how, and that he can protect himself will help him deal with the bullies at school.” 

“Bruce is going to speak with his mother about transferring Malcolm here to Gotham Academy.” 

Dick’s eyebrows winged up. He hadn’t known Bruce planned to talk with Malcolm’s mother about more than attending the ballet with him and Raya. “How did you get him to agree to that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Bruce decided it on his own?” 

“He did.” Raya nodded. “Yes.”

“Wow...” 

Why he was shocked by Bruce’s decision was beyond him. Bruce had been deeply disturbed by Malcolm’s suicide attempt. All of them had been rocked by it, really. _Even Jason was disturbed when he found out about Malcolm trying to take his life_ , Dick recalled. _And he hadn’t even met Malcolm yet_. Suicide was not something to joke about, though. Teen suicide rates had spiked in recent years, bullying being one of the biggest factors in why. Dick wasn’t positive, and he’d never ask, but he suspected this wasn’t Malcolm’s first attempt. 

It was just the most serious. 

Helping him find healthier coping mechanisms and ways of dealing with the bullies would go a long way towards seeing Malcolm not choose such a path again.

“You really think using ballet is a good idea?” 

Dick turned his head to study her face. Her color was good, but she looked exhausted. “Yeah, I do,” he told her as he patted his side in silent invitation. “Ballet will not only help him with his anxiety, but it will help him with the more complex moves you’ll teach him.” 

“That’s what I was thinking.” Raya scooted back against him. The only acknowledgment she’d give about needing physical contact. Dick hid a smile as he curved an arm around her. “It’s been a few years since he did ballet so he will have to start slow. Bends and stretches, at first.” 

“You’re totes looking forward to dancing with him, aren’t you?” 

“A little,” she admitted, tipping her head against his shoulder. “I haven’t had a partner since Alexi returned home to Moscow.” 

“You didn’t have a crush on Alexi like you do Malcolm,” he couldn’t help but tease. 

“Is it wrong that I do?” Raya asked in a small voice. “I like him, Dick.”

“No.” Dick rest his cheek against her crown, breathed in the exotic scent that was hers, and hers alone. “It’s not wrong that you like him, Rae. I like him. So does Jason. And Bruce.” His fingers drifted up into the hair at her nape. “Just be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get your heart broken the first time you give it to someone.”

“Malcolm would sooner cut his own heart out before he’d ever break mine.” Her sigh tickled his throat. “He’s terrified of hurting people. That’s why he bottles his emotions. He fears what’ll happen if he lets them out.” 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was related to Bruce.” 

“Bruce vents his emotions.”

“On bad guys faces.” 

Raya snorted a laugh. “If they weren’t bad guys, he wouldn’t vent on their faces.” 

“Good point.”

“Malcolm doesn’t have bad guy faces to vent on. He turns his anger inwards. It’s the root of his depression.” 

“Anger turned inwards is depression?” 

“Anger needs to be recognized, acknowledged, and resolved. If we don’t, we risk developing maladaptive behaviors.“

“Such as not eating or sleeping.”

“Those are a few maladaptive behaviors that can develop, yes. It links to thoughts and feelings of shame, even doubt.”

“Malcolm‘s definitely ashamed of being the son of _The Surgeon_.” 

Not that Dick could blame him. He wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if he found out his father murdered twenty-three people. 

“Alexander Pope summed it up best when he said, ‘to be angry is to revenge the faults of others upon ourselves’."

That she had a quote ready didn’t surprise Dick. Raya, much like her cousin, Barbara, was a talking, walking, breathing encyclopedia. It didn’t hurt her grandfather was a respected neuro-psychiatrist who took his granddaughter to his lectures at an early age. Matthew Sr. did his best to shield his granddaughter from his son. At the expense of his own life. 

_Another death that’s gone unsolved_ , he thought, jaw clenching. 

“Malcolm punishes himself for what his father did.” 

“Mhm.” 

Dick heaved a sigh as he massaged the tense muscles of her neck. “You have that in common.” 

“I know we do.” Her hand slid up to rest over his heart. Guarding it as he guarded hers. “I’m just lucky because I have bad guys to vent my anger on.” 

“You also have people there when you’re not whelmed.” 

She snorted a laugh. “You and you’re whelms.” 

“Well, I am the pun master.” 

“Whatever you say, buzzard brains.” Raya yawned hugely. “Whatever you say.” 

“Get some sleep.” He reached over to click the lamp on low. Not off. Seven years with her taught him many things, one being her fear of the dark. “You have a ballet lesson to teach in the morning.” 

“Mm,” she hummed as she snuggled closer. “Gonna teach him my choreography for _Danse Macabre_.” 

“One pirouette at a time, Rae.”

Her deep, even breathing was his answer. 

...

The Berkeley Estate shared the same Gothic architectural style as most of the other homes and buildings in Gotham. A thick wrought-iron fence topped with the blivet the devil wielded surrounded the property. It was an appropriate symbol for the man who inhabited the residence until a few months ago.

A blanket of snow covered the manicured lawn. The limbs of the majestic oak trees circling the drive bowed beneath the weight of the icicles hanging from them. More snow gleamed from atop the roof. For all its glacier beauty, though, Berkeley Estate was a dark, dark place.

Anger throbbed and hate pulsed as she faced the house that had been her home until she was nine. The grand old house with its stately columns and towering spires was the only witness to her lost innocence. 

This had not been a happy place. 

No, the Estate was a cold, cold place. 

Full of secrets and lies and pain and misery.

_And death._

Oh, yes, death, in all its cruelty, resided here. 

It held the house in its dark, sinewy web. Its shadow ran deep. Its breath was thick and fetid, and its eyes gleamed a feral shade in the dark. Whispers stirred in the leaves of the trees, across the glistening snow, in the tangled vines fastened to the bark of those old oaks. More voices called to her as she made her way up the front walk. 

To the door, the tall white door that opened into the long, wide foyer. Inside, the edges were sharp, surfaces hard. Colors were pale, mostly ivory and dove-gray. 

Save for the roses — always red roses —in the crystal vase on the table in the middle of the foyer.

The house seemed vacant, but it was a lie.

The house wasn't empty.

There were dozens of ghosts trapped inside its hallowed walls. 

All of them people who lost their lives to the monster who dwelled here.

The house beckoned her, begged her to step inside, to traverse its hallways once more.

In sleep, Raya turned her head away, resisted its lurid pull. She didn't want to go inside. 

Not now. 

Not ever. 

However, she found herself greeted by the black-and-white marble streaked with gold threads, gleaming wood, and the cold, cold sparkle of crystal and chrome soon as she stepped inside. Only this time, in this dream, it didn’t start with her mother collapsing on the antique table in the middle of the foyer, and upsetting the crystal vase full of fresh red roses. No, this time her mother stood in front of the table, her dark hair a riot of curls sweeping past the shoulders of the white dress she wore. 

Her lips were red, like the roses.

They trembled as she stared at the dark shadow lurking in the entryway she faced. 

“ _He told me what was supposed to happen after the ballet, Matthew_!” A tear slithered down her pale cheek. “ _That he was to invite us to his home, offer us tea laced with ketamine, and then he and his partner were to dispose of us_.”

A frown wrinkled her brow. _He_? _He who?_ The man who murdered her mother was right in front of her. 

“ _So, the good doctor revealed his plans to you, did he? How... disappointing_.” Her belly cramped at that silky purr. “ _Tell me, why didn’t he go through with his plans_?” 

“ _He said Raya and I were the same. Like he and his son, Malcolm_.”

“ _I see,_ ” her father murmured. “ _Well, I will make sure Doctor Whitly regrets his decision.”_

_“How could you ask him to murder your wife and child?!”_

“ _Easy, my dear Ellen_ ,” was said in that silken purr. “ _You and that mongrel of yours have become a liability_.” 

“ _A mongrel_?” Fury stained her mother’s pale cheeks. “ _You vile, loathsome bastard. How dare you call our daughter a mongrel!_ ”

“ _Tsk, tsk, Ellen. Such language is unbecoming of you.”_

_“Go to hell, Matthew_.” Her mother turned for the stairs. “ _I’m taking Raya and going to Jim’s. My lawyers will contact you for a time we can come get our things_.” 

“ _Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Ellen_.” There was a _click_. “ _Unlike Martin Whitly, I have no qualms about killing you or that miniature version of you_.” 

Bands of panic formed. Around her chest, around her head. Tightening, tightening until she could hardly breathe. She fought the nausea that threatened to burst from her mouth at any moment.

Harder to stop was the memory of what happened next...

...

A scream ripped through her head as she shot up in bed. It wasn't her own scream, though, oh no. 

It was her father's. 

A howl of pure, unmasked _rage_. 

With her breath sobbing in her throat, and her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Raya scrambled out of bed, upsetting the kitten that had been asleep on her back, and raced from the room. A bone-deep chill wracked her from head to foot as she fled down the hallway to the one place, the only place she could think to go that was safe from her father: the Batcave.

For a moment, just one, she thought she felt her father's fingers brush across the sensitive flesh along the back of her neck, tangle in the strands of her hair. She stifled a shriek and twisted out of teach, almost toppling backwards down the stairs in the process. 

A pair of hands grabbed her before she fell. “Raya?” She heard through the static filling her head. “Raya, what is it? What’s wrong?” 

She shook her head to clear away the lingering fog from her dream. “Malcolm?” 

“Yes.” 

Knowing it was Malcolm who steadied her and not a hallucination snapped Raya back to herself. She made to step back, breathing still a loud rasp to her ears, but the strength went out of her legs. She’d have dropped to the floor if not for Malcolm holding onto her. 

“Whoa...” 

“Okay.” He lowered her to the floor and sat beside her. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Raya’s quaking hands curled around his arm, as much to anchor herself in the here and now, as him. 

“I know,” she managed around the lump in her throat. Tears wet her cheeks but she paid them no mind. She needed to tell him what she remembered before she lost her nerve. “I know the connection between your father and mine. I finally remembered.”

“Remembered what?” 

She lifted her head to look at him. Saw the fear, panic, and questions burning in the depths of his eyes. “Why he shot her. It wasn’t because of me. Not completely.”

“I don’t understand.” His brow creased. “Who shot who?” 

“My father.” Her hands trembled so hard on Malcolm’s arm she swore they’d rattle his bones. “He shot my mother. And I know why.”

“You know why your father shot your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

“Because she was a liability he needed to get rid of. Only,” the words started coming fast now, almost tripping over themselves, “the man he hired to take care of them backed out at the last second. He couldn’t kill her or me.” 

“Why?” This came from Dick as he crouched on her other side. “Why did he back out, Rae?” 

“Because he saw me as an extension of my mother.” Malcolm’s face drained of color as her words registered. “Same as he sees his son as an extension of him.” 

“My father...” Malcolm breathed out in a strangled sound. “My father was supposed to kill you and your mother.” 

All Raya could do was nod. 


	25. Chapter 25

“My father...” Talking was difficult with how dry his mouth and throat were. It didn’t help his head spun, his heart twisted painfully in his chest, and tremors rattled his hands from fingers to shoulders. “My father...” he tried again as his body quaked against hers. “He was supposed to kill you and your mother.” 

“Yes, he was.” 

“Why?” Moisture gathered in the corner of his eyes. Spilled down his cheeks. “Why was he going to kill you?” 

Raya looked exhausted all the sudden. Bone-weary. A feeling Malcolm understood all too well. 

“Consequences.” 

“Consequences?” That made no sense whatsoever to Malcolm. Dick, when he glanced at his face, appeared familiar with her use of the word. “For what?” 

“Telling.”

“Telling?” His head spun from the overload of information. “What did you tell?”

“I told my uncle he routinely beat his wife.” Her eyes closed, more a long blink than anything else. “That he was crooked and cheated his clients. Was involved in organized crime. Had a partnership with Roman Sionis to bring in guns and people destined for factories and prostitution. Was building an underground city by enslaving homeless men, women, and children to move his illicit trade without Batman or my uncle being wise to it.”

“But...”

“My father appeared much like yours,” she continued, staring into his eyes. “He was charming, handsome, successful. A loving husband and father.” Bitter rage hardened her face. “Satan in disguise.”

Malcolm recalled Fenix’s words about not “fearing a clown when you’ve met Satan.” He didn’t realize he murmured the words aloud until Raya chuckled darkly. 

“The Joker employs cheap theatrics to create chaos and fear.” Her forehead tipped against his. “Men like our fathers prefer manipulation and intimidation to misdirects and deception.”

“My father’s a psychopath.” 

“No.” Her sigh sifted through his hair like invisible fingers. Subtly soothing, slightly stirring. “He’s a predatory sociopath and malignant narcissist.” 

“Who your father hired to kill you.” 

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “He did.”

Guilt crashed over Malcolm in crushing waves. He thought he’d be sucked down into the dark abyss where the shadow things dwelled. He figured he deserved an eternity of torment for not calling the police sooner on his father. 

“Why?” The word came out hardly a whisper. “Why did he hire my father?” 

“Because he needed to silence my mother and I. Only...” Raya’s hand slid down his arm to cover his. “He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill her or me.” 

“Why?” His hand trembled beneath her own. Hard enough he feared he’d bounce hers off. “Why couldn’t he kill you? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because it’d be like killing you.” 

“Killing me?” Malcolm shook his head to try and clear it. “Why would killing you be like killing me?”

“I’m my mother’s mirror image.” Raya’s fingers slipped between his own. Offering what he couldn’t bring himself to ask for. “Same as you are his.” 

Flashing red and blue lights tossed Malcolm back in time. The upper landing of Wayne Manor became the foyer of his home with his mother and Ainsley. Dark figures moved around Malcolm as his father crouched before him. 

“ _Malcolm, listen to me_.” The urgency in his tone, his harried expression shot a sliver of panic through Malcolm. “ _I want you to remember something, okay?_ ” 

Shadows blocked out the flashing lights coming through the open door. Malcolm couldn’t make out what they said. Not with his father’s voice mixing with the cacophony of noise filling his head. Not that it mattered what the shadows said. They were here to take his father away for what he’d almost done to the nice officer. 

For what he’d done to the girl. 

The one in the box. 

“ _You're... you're my son, and I love you.”_ Hands curved around his father’s upper arms. _“I will always love you._ ” 

“Because we're the same,” Malcolm murmured as his father was pulled away from him. “I’m just like him.” 

“You’re not.” Raya’s fingers trembling on his drew him back to the present. “You’re not him, Malcolm. No more than I am my mother.” 

“He says...” 

“My father hates me because I look like her. I’m not my mother, though.”

Her eyes, Malcolm saw, flickered for a brief second with something other than either bitter rage or glacier calm. That crack in her mask allowed him a glimpse of the place where her demons dwelled. Shadow creatures chased her with the same feral glee his did. Raya had been through the same hell as him, but unlike him, she managed to survive. _Because she became Fenix_ , he realized, breath wheezing as the truth finally sunk home.

“You’re Fenix.” His gaze shifted to Dick. “And you’re Robin.”

“N-” Dick started but Raya stopped him.

“Yes, we are.” Malcolm shifted to look at her as Dick sighed. ““We are Robin and Fenix.”

“Rae…”

"You can never tell anybody that you know our identities," she said in a gentle, but firm tone. "The difference between knowing and not knowing our identities is wrapped up in the importance of the fact. We’re a necessity that Gotham needs in order for it to survive what men like the Joker, Penguin and your own father try to do to it. Do you understand?"

" I will never tell _anybody_ who you are," Malcolm vowed. " _I promise."_

It was a promise Malcolm aimed to keep.

…

Bruce hadn’t meant to stay so late at Jessica’s but found himself enjoying himself too much to leave. He and Jessica were two people who shared history and interests. They were also single parents raising children as different from each other as an assorted box of chocolates. It had been nice to talk with someone who understood what raising a child with special health needs was like. Jessica had invited him to stay and eat with her, citing how lonely she was with Malcolm in Gotham, and her daughter, Ainsley at friends for a sleepover. 

Bruce hadn’t had it in him to say no. 

He dated more than Jessica. Largely because people expected a bachelor like him to squire a different lady around town each night. He cultivated that image of a wastrel and overall degenerate to keep his private life secret. Nobody would believe Bruce Wayne was Batman. Jessica didn’t have that as an option. Her social life dried up after her husband’s arrest. Doors once opened to her, closed. 

Something that infuriated Bruce. 

He swore to change that as he waited for Jessica to rejoin him. She did a few seconds later, a frown creasing her brow.

“Something wrong?” he asked as she made her way back to her seat. 

“No.” Her frown deepened. “At least, I don’t think there is.” 

“You’re not sure, though?” 

“Honestly?” She shook her head. “No.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the call?” he suggested. “Maybe I can help figure out if you should be concerned.” 

“Given how that man is involved?” Jessica huffed a breath. “I have reason to be concerned.” 

Bruce didn’t disagree with her. Martin Whitly was a dangerous man. _Especially to his son._

“Was Martin what your phone call was about?”

“Yes... and it was the strangest phone call I have ever received from Claremont Psychiatric Hospital.”

“Oh?” Bruce set his wine glass down before he turned to look at her. “Why’s that?” 

“It seems my rotten excuse of an ex-husband received a letter today from an anonymous person.” 

Men like Martin Whitly receiving letters wasn’t an unusual occurrence. However, a shiver of apprehension slid down Bruce’s spine. “Does Martin receive an unusual amount of letters?” 

“You wouldn’t believe the amount of fan-mail that man receives each month.” Bruce could but decided not to spoil the evening with a discussion about the eccentric host of villains sitting in Arkham Asylum. “He revels in it, of course. Why wouldn’t he?” Her smile was thin as a blade. “It’s all about him.”

“Why’s this letter different from the rest of the letters he receives?” 

“It contained a date.” 

“What date?”

“December 16, 1998.” 

Bruce’s pulse pounded wildly as pieces thought lost surfaced. 

December 16, 1998 was the anniversary of Ellen Rae Berkeley’s death. 

A date that forever lived in the mind of the daughter she left behind. 

Same as the 26th of June would live in his. 

He reached for his glass to keep Jessica from seeing his reaction to her words. 

“Was the note signed?” He took a small sip of wine. “Or was the date all that was written?” 

“It was just the date.” Jessica poured more wine into her glass. She tipped the bottle towards his but Bruce placed his hand over it. “Why do you ask?

“Because that is the date of Ellen Rae Berkeley’s murder.” 

Jessica’s face blanched. “What?” she breathed out, mouth trembling, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” 

Bruce nodded. “Positive.” 

“Why would someone send that date to that despicable man?”

Bruce couldn’t answer that with one hundred percent certainty. 

Not yet. 

He would soon as he returned to the Manor and talked to the only person who could provide him with an answer. 

He had an idea, though. 

“Where was Martin that night? Was he home or did he go out that night?” 

“As much as I hate defending that man...” Jessica let out a small, disgusted sigh. “He was here that evening.” 

“He never left?”

“The only time we left was when we attended a performance that evening of _The Nutcracker_.” Her brow creased. “Ellen and her daughter attended that performance with us. Matty provided the tickets, in fact.” 

Bruce’s heart pounded harder as pieces of a fragmented puzzle started to fall into place. Things that never made sense now did with startling clarity. Raya never told him her and her mother attended the ballet that evening with Jessica and Martin Whitly. Something told him the reason was because that part of her memories had been blacked out from the trauma of seeing her mother murdered in front of her hours after the performance. 

“What happened after the ballet?”

“Martin drove them to the train station.”

“Martin took Raya and her mother to the train station? Not Berkeley?”

“Matty didn’t attend the performance with us.” 

Bruce glanced sharply at her. “He didn’t?”

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“He said he had a last minute meeting with a client and couldn’t attend.” 

The rest of the pieces missing these past seven years fell into place and the picture that emerged shook Bruce to the core. 

A man desperate to rid himself of his wife and daughter before they revealed his connection to Gotham’s underbelly. 

A respected and renowned doctor hiding his proclivity for murder by presenting the image of a loving husband and father to the world. 

A killer hired to kill but somehow failed to do so. 

_Revenge_ , he realized as he reached into his inside pocket for his cellphone. _It’s_ _all about revenge._

On Raya for convincing her mother to finally reveal what a monster her father was to Gotham’s high society. 

On Ellen Rae Berkeley for telling Gordon about his partnership with Roman Sionis and Oswald Cobblepot.

And finally on Martin Whitly for not fulfilling his end of their bargain by ridding Berkeley of his wife and daughter. 

_That’s why he wants to kill Malcolm. To punish Martin Whitly._

Bruce dialed Jim’s number as he stood. He didn’t need to explain to Jessica where he was going. A look at her face revealed she already figured out what was going on. Her eyes silently beseeched him to protect her son. 

“Jim,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’ve figured out the connection between Matthew Berkeley and Martin Whitly.” 

...

The second Gordon hung up with Wayne, he dialed Gil. Exactly as he promised the billionaire he’d do before they ended their conversation. The phone rang twice before there was a click and Gordon heard, “ _Arroyo_.” 

Gordon didn’t waste time on a greeting. Not when every second counted. 

“Are you on duty tonight?” He snatched his rumpled coat from the back of his seat and shrugged it on. “Do I need to put an official call to your lieutenant?”

“ _I’m off-duty tonight_ ,” came Gil’s reply. “ _Why_?”

“How long would it take for you to get to Gotham?”

“ _Forty-five minutes if the turnpike isn’t backed up because of the storm. Thirty if I use the Lincoln tunnel_.” Suspicion sharpened Gil’s tone. “ _Is something wrong, Jim? Is Malcolm..._ ”

“He’s fine,” Gordon quickly assured him. “He was watching movies with my girl when I phoned her a little while ago.”

He prayed they were still watching movies. 

“ _Then why do you need me to come to Gotham at this time of night_?” 

Gordon ran a hand through his hair as he debated how best to answer. _Honest and to the point worked best_ , he decided, releasing a heavy breath. _Get it out into the open so we can figure out how best to proceed._

“Bruce Wayne’s figured out what the connection between Martin Whitly and Matthew Berkeley is.” 

“ _He did_?” Surprise tinged the detectives tone. “ _What is it_?”

Gordon explained as he reached for the overcoat he tossed atop a file cabinet when he entered his office earlier. 

“Seems Berkeley hired Whitly to kill his wife and daughter seven years ago.” 

_Tonight_ , he added silently. _He hired Whitly to kill them seven years ago, tonight_. 

Something not lost on Gil. 

“ _Dr. Whitly didn’t kill them, though. Raya is clearly alive and her mother was killed by her father_.”

“That’s why Berkeley’s doing this.” Gordon grabbed his keys off his desk and headed for the door. “He’s getting revenge on Martin Whitly for not getting rid of his wife and daughter by killing the person that matters most to him.” 

“ _Malcolm_.” 

“Right.” Gordon signaled to Bullock and the two young detectives standing with him. The three followed him from the bullpen without a word. “I’m heading to Wayne Manor now to make sure Berkeley doesn’t try and send another team of mercenaries to kidnap the kids.” 

“ _Where’s Bruce_?” Gordon heard the groan of a car door being opened and smiled. “ _Isn’t he home with them_?” 

“No.” A blast of cold air hit him in the face as he exited the precinct and made for the parking garage next to the GCPD. “He was just leaving Jessica Whitly’s when he called me.” 

“ _Bruce was at Jessica’s_?” The roar of a car engine partially covered the surprise in Gil’s voice. 

“That’s what he said.” 

_“He’s got an additional twenty to twenty-five minutes before he’ll even reach the Gotham-Jersey turnpike_.” 

“I’ve seen how the man drives.” Gordon unlocked his car and slid in behind the wheel. Bullock slid into the passenger seat while the other detectives, Tate and Renaldo, walked over to their own car. “He’ll reach Wayne Manor before you do, trust me.” 

_And heaven help anyone who gets in his way_ , he thought as he started his car. 


	26. Chapter 26

A detective named Andersen took over watching him after Bullock and Tate were called away. Andrei trusted Andersen, knew him as one of those loyal to the badge, and not Berkeley. A knock sounded before the door to the interview room opened and a rookie officer entered, a styrofoam cup in each hand, and a file tucked under one arm. Andrei didn’t recognize the dark-haired woman but didn’t get that deep in his gut feeling that said she was not trustworthy. 

Not everyone worked for Berkeley, after all. 

Maroni, Falcone, Penguin, Black Mask all had cops on their payrolls. 

Even Dent still had a few contacts in the district attorney’s office. 

That was how kingpins like them kept ahead of men like Gordon. 

_Like Batman._

A man they’d all like to see retired. 

“Why’re you here, Mitchell?” Andersen looked up from the file he had been reading, a frown between his bushy brow. “Didn’t the boss tell you to finish up your 5’s before heading home?”

Mitchell nodded to the cups she held. 

“He told me to bring you and Detective Rolonov a cup of coffee before he left.” 

Andersen grunted and took the cup she offered. “Thanks.” 

“Sure.”

Mitchell then walked over to set the second cup in front of Andrei. Steam wafted up, carrying the faint hint of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon. Andrei’s lips quirked at Gordon’s remembering how he drank his coffee. 

“Thank you,” he said to the officer, folding his fingers around the cup. “I appreciate the coffee.” 

“You’re welcome.” Mitchell turned then to go but stopped as she suddenly remembered the file under her arm. “Sir, I almost forgot...” She held it out to Andersen. “He wanted me to bring you this.” 

Andersen took it and looked at it. “Sarah Latsky?” He flipped it open and stared at the picture of the woman fastened to one corner. “Her case went cold five years ago when her husband died in that train accident.” He looked up. “What’s he want me to do with this?”

“He wanted you to go through it and look for any connections there might be to Matthew Berkeley.” 

“Yeah, alright, sure.” Andersen set the file on the table before reaching for the coffee he set aside. “Ain’t got anything else to do.” 

“Passes the time,” Andrei said, lifting his own cup to his lips. “Puts Berkeley one step closer to Blackgate.” 

_And the cage he deserves to rot in._

“That’s if we can find anything or anyone to... _shit_ , Rolonov, the coffee! Don’t drink it!” 

It was too late, however. 

Andrei grabbed at his throat as it started to burn. 

He made a few gurgling sounds before slumping in his seat, dead. 

...

Gordon had no trouble maneuvering his unmarked car through the narrow cobblestone streets. Fear for his niece and the Whitly boy kept his wits sharp and his reflexes quick. He wasn't alone in this midtown race. He was in the lead of another unmarked car, three patrol units, and a SWAT vehicle. Sirens howled, tires squealed, and the swirling lights slapped back the dark things playing in the shadows. They zipped past roadblocks setup to keep traffic from using particular streets and on-ramps because of the ice coating the road. 

“You think Berkeley is gonna attempt to take the sprocket and Whitly kid tonight?” 

“I wouldn’t put it past him, Harv.” 

He wouldn’t put anything past Berkeley at that point. Least of all after they found Brady’s boy, Seth. Gordon had known the boy was a message. Berkeley was cleaning house. Getting rid of all those who could implicate him.

“Yeah,” Bullock said, staring out the front windshield. “Me neither.” He slanted at look at him. “Hope Wayne contacted Batman after he talked to you. Gotta feelin’ we’re gonna need him.” 

“Batman can’t get here.” Gordon stepped on the accelerator. “Not in enough time to keep Berkeley from getting his hands on those kids.” 

“Up to us then.”

Gordon grunted an acknowledgement as he screeched around a corner. Cars blocked both sides of traffic ahead. Gordon's jaw clenched, and he was half tempted to speed up and push his way through the blockade. Reality set in, though, and he forced himself to slam to a halt when six men in full riot gear opened fire with machine guns. Bullets pinged and slammed into the tires, blasted off the passenger side mirror, and shattered the back glass.

"Sons of bitches!" Bullock shoved open his car door and leaned out to return fire. One of the armored men screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his right knee. “Got’chu.” The windshield shattered. “Goddamn it!” He fired off another shot. “Just got the car back from the last shootout!”

“This is Berkeley!” Gordon shot one in the arm. “He’s making sure we can’t get to Wayne Manor!"

“Should have suspected he’d pull something like this!” 

Gordon had known deep in his gut Berkeley would pull out all the stops this time. 

He couldn’t risk another Bellevue happening. 

Not when he was so close to his endgame. 

“Commissioner,” Tate yelled as a bullet grazed his ear. “You need to fall back!” 

_You can’t afford to get shot_ , Gordon added silently. _Not when your niece is counting on you to stop her father from his end goal: killing her and the Whitly boy._

“Harv!” he called. “Fall back!” 

“Yeah,” Bullock grunted as more bullets pinged off the front grill. “We’re just sitting ducks here.”

They moved back behind the SWAT van. Gordon mentally counted the number of officers with him as he reloaded. Ten fully rigged riot officers, a handful of uni’s, Tate and Renaldo. _Plus Harvey and myself_. 

Twenty officers against six fully trained mercenaries with machine guns. 

They had faced worse odds before and came out relatively okay. 

Course, they also had Batman and Robin to help. 

_Well, we don’t this time. We only have ourselves._

It be enough. 

"Svenson, take a handful of your men and try to get behind these animals. Vachomsky, you and Harris go right with the rest," Gordon snapped in a cool, crisp voice. "I want the rest of you on me.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I don't have to tell you to be careful, you already know that. I will tell you that this is just the start of whatever Berkeley has planned. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir.”

“Good, let’s do this then.” 

_And remember it’s to protect two kids from the monster wanting to kill them._

Not that he needed to tell them that. 

Their grim expressions said they already knew. 

This was a fight to protect one of their own, after all. 

They’d do whatever it took to make sure Berkeley didn’t get his hands on those kids. 

As would he. 

Or he’d die trying. 

...

In Brooklyn, a semi-truck lumbered to a stop at the intersection where Officer Shandi Cruz, fresh out of the police academy, was directing traffic. She raced out from behind the door of her police cruiser, hunching her shoulders against the bitter cold, and approached the cab of the truck.

"Hey, pal, you gotta wait same as everybody else," she said to the driver right before she took a shotgun blast to her face. 

She was dead before her body even hit the ground.

…

Two black SUVs pulled up in front of Wayne Manor at precisely eleven o’clock, and a handful of men, all dressed in black, stepped out. Each one carried a grenade launcher primed with special knockout rounds. Only the leader of the group, a man simply known as Nine, carried a shotgun.

"Boss wants the Whitly kid brought to him with his daughter.” Nine racked a shell into the gun's firing chamber. "Preferably unharmed.” 

“Preferably?” A man at the back of the group asked. “Hell’s that mean?” 

“Berkeley never makes shit clear,” grumbled a man on Nine’s right. “Just expects you to know what the hell he wants.”

Soft agreements came from the rest of the men. Nine held up a hand to silence them. 

“Banged up and bruised is acceptable,” he said. “But unharmed is preferred."

"What about the butler Wayne has?" one of the men, a man named Askalov asked. "What's the boss want us to do with him and Wayne’s other two brats?"

"The gas will knock ‘em out," Nine replied. "Keep ‘em from interfering." 

“So, we just gonna leave ‘em unconscious?” 

“Do whatever you want with ‘em.” His lips twisted into a cold sneer. "Ain’t like the Big Man is gonna object if we rough ‘em up or anything." There were small murmurs and chuckles from the rest of the men. Nine waved two men towards the massive front door. "Blow it."

“Yes, sir.” 

They moved to the door and attached an explosive device to it. Leaving little margin for error, they backed away soon as the device was ready. 

“All set,” the tallest said to Nine. “Got a minute before the charges blow.”

Nine nodded. “Seven will blow the doors at the back of the place after we blast open this one.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Get ready with that knockout gas.” Nine shouldered his shotgun. “In case Wayne or one of his brats tries anything.” 

“Yes, sir.” They lifted their grenade launchers. “We await for your signal.” 

“On three...” He held up three fingers. “One...” They aimed at the house. “Two...” They curled their fingers around the triggers. “Three...” 

...

Decker Street, which sat on the line that separated the Narrows from the rest of Gotham, was a crowded block in a poorer section of the city, with rundown buildings, broken sidewalks, potholes in the asphalt, and street-lamps that flickered off more than stayed on. Garbage piled up in alleyways and on the front stoops of the dilapidated browstones. Icy sludge swirled around sewer grates and the curbs. No children played the myriad of games others their age did in this part of town.

For good reason.

There was not a city funded spot with basketball courts or a baseball diamond. 

There was not even a strip of green for a jungle gym or swing-set. 

A vacant lot commissioned for a playground had been turned into one of the dozens of homeless encampments. 

It was a sad, depressing, and disturbing representation of the socioeconomic differences that affected the various boroughs of the city. 

Not that those down at city hall cared. Gotham’s officials handled the problem of poverty in their city by ignoring it. Two plainclothes detectives left a brown sedan illegally parked in front of a three-story building smack dab in the middle of the block. They went loping up the steps before the engine even had a chance to stop sputtering.

Nikolai Rolonov, wearing jeans and a heavy wool sweater, opened the door, and listened as the two explained why they were there. 

“Andrei has turned himself in?” He shook his head. “The fool. I told him we would find a way to handle this on our own.” 

“He’s asked you to come down to the station,” one said. 

“To give a corroborating statement,” added the other.

“Yes, yes, of course he did.” Nikolai turned to grab his gloves and hat from the table next to the door. “I will come with you.” 

Flanked by the two detectives, who scanned the adjoining buildings and street while holding their pistols, they ushered him into the backseat of the sedan. 

“We’re heading for the GCPD?” he asked as they climbed into the front. “You’ll want to take Cicero back to avoid the construction on Third.”

Orange flames spouted from underneath the car as it was lifted off the pavement by the force of the explosion. 

...

There was nothing remotely peaceful about Alfred's evening. Not when he had three sixteen year olds, an eleven year old, and an eccentric employer to care for. Miss Raya and Master Malcolm proved the easiest to deal with. Grilled cheese, gingerbread cookies, and movies kept them occupied. He opted to send Master Dick to the Cave to let the boy work out his restlessness in the gym. Master Jason decided to closet himself off in the armory. 

Alfred might have been nervous about that if he didn’t know the boy was hiding in there while restoring a vintage music box he found while at a junk sale last month. His lips curled as he recalled the eagerness in which Master Jason plunked the two dollars onto the plastic table and told a startled Mrs. Beasley, “ _I’ll take it_.” 

He hadn’t known what the boy wanted with the shabby box until he spied the miniature ballerina lying on the bottom. It wasn’t often that a member of this family managed to surprise him, but Master Jason’s thoughtfulness managed to do just that. 

Not that he allowed the boy to know. 

There were appearances to maintain, after all. 

Master Bruce, it seemed, was the one set on shocking him that evening. 

In a good way for a change. 

Master Bruce calling to tell him he choose to stay and enjoy the company of Miss Jessica pleased Alfred. Not only because it meant he decided not to return as he originally intended to prowl the city but that he remembered there was more to life than crime fighting. Alfred often lamented about how his employer never enjoyed a quiet evening with a lovely young woman, choosing instead to traipse around Gotham in pursuit of one of the nefarious villains lurking in the shadows. 

He sometimes wondered if Master Bruce knew how to stop and appreciate the beauty found in the world. If his employer thought about this holiday – indeed, any holiday, for that matter - in terms of _Bruce Wayne_ instead of _Batman_ was a matter of considerable debate. Whenever Master Bruce chose to do something that was outside his role as the city's silent protector was a rarity. Alfred learned years ago that it was useless to ask him if he remembered there was more to life than Batman. 

The answer was always a terse, “ _No_.” 

Same as asking him if he remembered this time of year was for peace, joy, and happiness. 

Family and friends. 

Togetherness.

It wasn’t that his employer didn’t remember what time of year this was. 

It was that Master Bruce believed he couldn’t have a life outside the cape and cowl.

“ _My duty is to Gotham_ , _Alfred_.” 

It had been on the tip of his tongue to remind him his duty was to the three children wanting to celebrate the holiday with him. Same as he used to celebrate with his mother and father. 

_Do you recall how your mother would sit at the grand piano and play while your father read A Christmas Carol in his rich baritone_?

The same velvety tone his son had. It was just one of the physical traits Master Bruce inherited from Thomas Wayne. 

Not that Alfred bothered to ask if Master Bruce saw any of his mother and father in him when he looked in the mirror. He had a feeling the answer to that question would be a harsh, " _No_."

Master Bruce could be quite predictable about how he chose to respond to certain lines of questioning. Ask him a question related to one of his latest cases or a newly developed piece of technology and he could talk for hours and in the most intricate of detail. Question him about anything personal and he would clam up tighter than a shell. _Why shouldn’t I question him, though_? he mused as he finished drying the last of the dinner dishes. It wasn't like he _couldn't_ speak his mind. 

He was not, after all, the mere "butler" for the most affluent man in Gotham. 

Nor was his employer any sort of “regular" employer. 

He and Master Bruce never had a "normal" employer-employee relationship. How could they when he became guardian of the boy when he was nine-years-old? The same age as Master Dick and Miss Raya when Master Bruce became _their_ guardian. 

_Speaking of children_... 

He should go check on them. 

Alfred turned to exit the kitchen, deciding to go check on Master Jason in the armory before returning to make a spot of tea for himself and Master Malcolm to share. He mentally added a third cup, along with a plate of the oatmeal raisin cookies he baked that afternoon for Miss Raya. 

_Her favorite because they’re Master Bruce’s favorite_ , he thought, lips twitching as he made his way past the grand staircase. He froze when he heard voices on the upstairs landing. 

“She’s totes like Bruce.” Master Richard’s tone was a cheeky one. Alfred could imagine a grin spread across his face. “Just cuter and cuddlier.” 

An aggrieved sigh pierced the air before Miss Raya grumbled, “Hush up, Grayson.”

“Make me.”

There was a _ffff_ sound. “I’ll just have Jason get you for me.” 

Master Richard scoffed. “That’s cheating.” 

“Yeah, and?” 

“And it’s not allowed!”

“Says who?”

“Says me!” 

_I wonder what this particular disagreement is about_? With Master Richard and Miss Raya, there were more than a few possibilities. None Alfred had time to consider as the world around him suddenly exploded in a maelstrom of plaster, wood, dust, and other debris. 

Pain exploded behind his eyes as something heavy hit him in the back of the back of the head. 

Alfred’s world went bright. 

Then dark. 


	27. Chapter 27

If someone were to ask Dick what the hell happened, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. 

Quite simply, he had no idea. 

One second he and Raya were squabbling... like they usually did after one of her episodes. Then they were plunged into complete and utter chaos after an explosion blew the Manor’s front doors inwards in a shower of wood, plaster, and other debris. Thick smoke filled the foyer and made visibility poor. 

A second explosion came from another part of the Manor. Dick assumed the intruders set an explosive device on the doors either at the entrance into the pool area or the back garden. _Where Raya and Malcolm had walked less than three hours ago._ That thought brought Dick up short. Had these men watched as the two casually strolled the stone paths together? Had they taken pictures of the two as they quietly talked about whatever it was they discussed? _It’s a definite possibility_ , he realized, fingers curling into fists. 

Bruce never ordered them to remain inside. _He should have, though._ Not that it’d have stopped Berkeley from sending another batch of mercenaries after Malcolm.

“My father,” Raya growled in his ear. “He’s the only one who’d dare something like this.”

Dick didn’t bother confirming she was right. The team of men making their way inside through the dust and debris was proof of that. A team of mercenaries invading the Manor didn’t bother him. Ra’s sent his League there at least once a year. Bane, even, attacked the Manor once. That happened a few months after he came to live with Bruce. Those mercenaries showed up with swords and assault rifles, not grenade launchers. The sight of those grenade launchers gave him serious pause. Sent pinpricks of alarm dancing up and down his spine. Caused his belly to curl with a mixture of anxiety and dread. 

Those launchers meant business. 

_Serious_ business. 

_Only one reason they have for those,_ he thought as Raya’s breath whispered across the back of his neck. That was bad news for him, Alfred, and Jason. Berkeley was not taking any chances on another Bellevue happening. Not that Dick planned to surrender. His reputation was at stake here.

He was Robin, after all. 

Boy Wonder. 

Fenix’s best friend and partner. 

“Dick.” Raya’s fingers curled around his arm. “We need to get to our suits.” 

“Take Malcolm and go to Bruce’s study,” he told her. “Contact your uncle. Let him know what’s going on. Tell him we need backup and fast.”

“What about tall, dark, and moody?” 

Dick shook his head. “He can’t get here in time to help.” 

_Unlike the last time_ , he added as hushed whispers came from below. No, this time they were completely on their own against a bunch of well-trained mercenaries.

“Are we talking about the same man?” Raya drawled in a tone as dry as Alfred’s waffles. “Because the one I’m talking about has a plane at his disposal.” 

“Still take him twenty minutes to get here.” Dick waved at the men fanning out below. “They’re already inside. Gordon is the only one we can rely on outside of ourselves.”

“Could call Superman.” 

_That_ , Dick realized as a few of the men headed down the hall towards the ballroom, _isn’t a bad idea_. The Man of Steel could get there faster than Batman and even Commissioner Gordon. _And it’d be kinda fun to watch these goons shoot grenades at a man faster than a speeding bullet._

“Take Malcolm and head for the cave.”

Raya’s eyes popped wide as his order registered. It wasn’t like it exposed their secret. She’d already done that when she confirmed Malcolm’s statement. Even if she hadn’t told him the truth, what other choice was there? The alternative was letting Malcolm be taken or killed. _Where he’ll end up being killed after who knows how much torture._

“What about you?” Malcolm’s face was white as a sheet. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“I’ve gotta get to Jason and Alfred.” His eyes met Raya’s. “You’ve gotta keep them from taking Malcolm.” Refusal brimmed in those green depths, trembled on her lips, but he shot it down. “You know what’ll happen to him if they catch him.”

_You know what your father will do to him if he gets his hands on him_ , he told her silently. Raya’s face hardened. The hand on his arm quit trembling. He’d have teased her about compartmentalizing her emotions the same way as Bruce but now wasn’t the time. Not when Malcolm could be the one who got hurt.

“Don’t do anything stupid, bird boy.” 

He flashed her a cheeky grin. “Hey, it’s me, remember?” 

“That’s my point.” 

A small sound, one that might have been humor, came from Malcolm. Dick winked at him before telling Raya, “Go.”

Raya squeezed his arm once before grabbing Malcolm’s hand and pulling him behind her towards Bruce’s study. 

Once they were gone, Dick turned back, weighing what options he had. Not that he had a whole lot to pick from. Granted, he had the home court advantage of knowing the Manor, but he was without his armor, and any of his gadgets against men with grenade launchers. 

_Fight smarter, not harder, Grayson_. Lesson number one in the Batman playbook. Followed by, _use whatever weapon is handy to bash the bad guys over the head with._

“Alrighty, boys.” A tallish, thinnish man strolled into the grand foyer as if he owned the Manor. “Find the Whitly kid.”

“What about the girl?” A dark-skinned man on the right rasped. Dick thought the man familiar. He squinted to try and get a better look, but the haze and shadows prevented him from getting a good look at the man’s face. “Boss wants the little bitch brought to him along with the Whitly brat.” 

Rage bubbled and burned beneath Dick’s skin. He rejected it, however. Anger wouldn’t help him keep these men from taking either Malcolm or Raya. 

“Find the Whitly boy.” A smirk screwed up the corner of the tallish man’s thin lips. “You’ll find the girl."

"Yes, sir.”

The mercenaries spread out like a volcanic wave, making their way through the manor in search of the two they’d been sent here to find. Dick slid into the shadows and waited for the two coming up the stairs to pass him. 

When they did, he struck. 

Quickly, silently, efficiently. 

Just like Batman taught him. 

He made his way down the stairs slowly, eyes watchful, senses on high alert.

The hunted had now become the hunter.

...

Jason exited the armory a couple of seconds after the first explosion rocked the Manor. He managed to get a foot from the entrance when a second explosion shook the ground beneath his feet. _Hell’s going on?_ he wondered as smoke filled the hallway. _Has Ra sent the League to screw with Bruce again_? 

Bane looking for a rematch? 

_Maybe it’s the Clown Freak._

Something told him it was none of the above.

Not that it mattered _who_ was attacking. 

The Manor was under attack and that meant one thing: Jason needed to help defend it. He weighed what he should do against what he wanted to do as he got back to his feet. Down to the Cave was where he was supposed to head should a situation like this occur. It was literally the first thing Bruce taught him after revealing to him he was Batman. Worry and concern for Alfie, Dick, Raya, and especially Malcolm — who Jason found himself liking — overrode Bruce’s lessons. He had to find them, make sure they were okay. They could all get to the Cave then and call Bruce. 

As they were instructed to do should something like this happen. 

Decision made, Jason scurried down the hall, mindful of intruders, and any more explosives ready to go off. He skid to a halt when he spied the armed goons in the foyer. 

“Find the Whitly boy,” one of the goons said. “You’ll find the girl."

_So_ , he thought, eyes narrowing into slits. _These buncha creeps are here for Malcolm and Raya._

Well, they’d get them over his dead body. Jason hid himself behind one of the suits of armor that lined the hall as a few of the mercenaries headed his way. They passed him, heading exactly where he assumed they would: the armory. A grin crept over his face as he quietly followed, devising a plan in his head for how to cut the number of jerks from four to none. Preferably without one of them shooting him with a grenade from one of the grenade launchers they held. If he could get my hands on one of them grenade launchers, though... 

He’d certainly even the playing field. 

_Boy, wouldn’t that shock ‘em?_ he thought as the men paused outside the armory entrance. _A kid blasting ‘em with their own weapon._ Sure, using guns went against Bruce’s no-kill rule and all. Jason wasn’t honestly sure he subscribed to that particular way of thinking. He learned how to survive Gotham’s seedy underbelly by doing what it took. 

If that meant having to kill? 

So be it.

Jason tried to obey Bruce’s golden rule after he started training under him and all. 

He really did. 

He just found it hard to adhere to such a strict policy when it came to stopping men like these from hurting people he cared about. _I won’t let them take Raya and Malcolm,_ he decided as he hid around a corner, watching and waiting for an opportunity to arise that’d allow him to relieve one of the baboons of their grenade launchers. _I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure they’re safe._ If it eliminated a few bad guys in the process? 

Oh, well.

...

Malcolm’s hand vibrated hard enough in hers that it rattled the bones of her hand. Raya understood his fear and anxiety. Being targeted by trained mercenaries wasn’t something people expected to happen once in their lifetime. Malcolm had now found himself a target _twice_. All in less than a month’s time. 

Each one because of the sperm donor listed on her birth certificate as father. 

The pieces of her fragmented memories started coming together now that she figured out the connection between his father and hers. She couldn’t dwell on that, though. Not while the Manor was under attack by men who wanted to take Malcolm back to her father. Who’d do unspeakably cruel things to him before killing him just because he could. A crash from below had her quicken her pace. While reaching her uncle was prudent at that point, calling Superman for backup was the best option they had for getting through this attack with the least amount of injury possible. 

Especially since there was no way Bruce, even if he elected to use the Batplane, could get to them fast enough to provide them with backup. 

First thing she needed to do, though, was get Malcolm somewhere safe. 

The Cave was the best option they had. 

Another thing Dick had been right about. 

She could have Barbara lock the Cave down while she got to her armor. She could then return upstairs and takeover the fight so Dick could then get to his armor. 

Not that he’d appreciate her defying his orders. 

_Too bad_ , she decided as she pulled Malcolm into the study. _Fenix’s job is to backup Robin._

And _she_ was still Fenix. 

Until Bruce took away her mask for failure to do her duty. Raya pushed that thought to the back of her mind and told Malcolm, “I’m going to call my uncle and then get you somewhere safe.”

“What about you?” Malcolm said, breathless from their race down the hall. “Dick told you...”

“I know what he told me.” Raya made her way to Bruce’s desk. “I’m not leaving him to fight these men alone.” 

“He has Alfred and Jason to help him.” 

“He’s still outmatched.” 

“But...” 

“Trust me.” She took a second she didn’t have to reassure him. “It’ll all work out.” 

Malcolm gave her a doubtful look but remained silent. Raya reached for the phone when an armed man dropped down outside the window, hanging above the ground by a rope.

That didn’t concern her as much as the assault rifle the man held in one hand. 

“Malcolm, get down!” 

He dropped to the floor as the man fired through the window. Glass shattered, and the mercenary swung inside, crunching shards of glass beneath his boots. Those sharp fragments nullified her plan to attack with a jump kick so Raya improvised by snatching the lamp off the desk and throwing it at him. 

The man swatted it away with a laugh. 

“That the best you got, kid?” he growled. “Gonna have to do better than that.” 

“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

“Gonna be full of lead if you don’t surrender.” 

“Nah, don’t think so.” Raya backed up until she felt Malcolm’s hand against the heel of her foot. “If you want to surrender, though, well, I’ll gladly accept.”

“Got a mouth on you, girl.” The man took two steps forward. “Someone should teach you to watch it.”

“Man paying you tried.” 

Malcolm let out a small, distressed sound at her snark. She wanted to send him a reassuring smile but couldn’t risk taking her eyes off the man in front of her. 

“I ain’t gonna try.” 

“Promises, promises.” 

Another small sound came from Malcolm. Raya slid her foot over his hand, tapping out a message to trust her with her toes. If he understood what she was trying to tell him, she didn’t know. He remained quiet, though, and that was most important. 

“This ain’t no promise.” 

Raya snorted a laugh as the man came around the desk. “You mercs are all the same.”

She was stalling _,_ waiting until the merc cleared the desk and the glass before attacking. 

More men crashed into the room just as he stepped over the last of the glass fragments. Raya’s hope for a quick escape plummeted. 

Six men stood behind the first. 

_Seven against one._

Even with all her skill and training the odds were more solidly in the mercenaries favor. 

They had the numbers and the weapons. 

She wasn’t out of the game entirely, though. Fighting seven men in full rig, armed to the teeth, each outweighing her by a good hundred and twenty pounds, without her own armor might be a bit of a stretch. However, Bruce didn’t train them to fight bad guys one-on-one in full body armor.

No, he prepared them for anything and everything.

_Expect the unexpected_ was rule number four, after all. Followed by number five: _and deal with the unexpected by remembering rules one through four._ She considered her options as the men spread out. There were few. All she had on her were three of her toxin-laced talons. Enough to cull their numbers to a more manageable number, yes, but not enough to stop them. With no smoke pellets, she couldn’t create a distraction so she and Malcolm could escape. 

_Time_ , she thought, sliding her hand into her hair to palm one of her talons. _I have to buy enough time for Dick or Alfred to get here and help_.

To do that required a weapon.

Her eyes landed on Dick’s broken bo-staff on its display by the door. She never understood why Bruce had chosen to keep it and right now it didn’t matter. The pieces would work to bring down the remaining four men. Speed would be her greatest ally. Strike first, strike fast, make the hit count, and move on. 

“Get her!"

The men started advancing like a solid wall of human flesh before they split off, slowly flanking her on all sides. 

Time slowed to a crawl. 

A familiar blaze burned in the pit of her belly. 

Raya drew her arm back but froze when a deep voice came from behind her. 

“I wouldn’t if I was you.” 

She slowly turned to face a dark-skinned man with different colored eyes. The biting retort on her tongue died when she saw he held Malcolm in front of him, a knife to his throat. The biting retort on her tongue died when she saw he held Malcolm in front of him, a hunting knife to his throat. 

“Let him go.” 

“I don’t think so.” His fleshy lips spread wide as he yanked Malcolm’s head back. “Now, drop whatever it is you are holding and come along quietly. Otherwise...” 

He didn’t need to specify what he meant. 

The knife against Malcolm’s throat told her clearly what’d happen if she refused.

“You win.” Raya’s eyes met Malcolm’s red-rimmed eyes. “You win.” She dropped her talon. “I’ll come quietly.”


	28. Chapter 28

His wife, Gabrielle, loved to tell him he wasn’t paid enough for the shit he put up with. Most often, he disagreed with her. Then he had nights like this one where he had to listen to the mad ravings of a man who liked hearing himself speak on good days. 

“He’s going to kill my son!” Whitly yelled for what Mr. David believed was the thousandth time in the span of two hours. “He’s going to kill him!” 

Mr. David, long accustomed to Martin Whitly’s erratic moods and behaviors didn’t bother looking up from his magazine. He had known he was in for a long night after the letter Whitly received. Why the doctor reacted the way he did was beyond him. 

Not that he was paid to figure out why Martin Whitly said or did any of the things he did. 

“He’s going to kill my son!” A raw, desperate edge made Whitly’s voice thin, reedy. If Mr. David didn’t know better, he’d almost believe the man truly was terrified about the perceived danger to his son. _Almost_. “I have to stop him! I can’t let him take my son from me!” 

_You’ll get out of here when pigs fly and a monkey is voted the undisputed ruler of the New World Order,_ Mr. David thought, turning the page. 

Martin Whitly getting free concerned everyone. Not only because the man was a notorious serial killer but because of the harm he could cause his son, Malcolm. That’s why Mr. David phoned Jessica Whitly. To warn her as much as make sure she keep her son away from his father. 

“He’s going to kill him! He’s going to kill my son!”

Whitly went right on ranting and raving. 

Mr. David continued reading while waiting for the lorazepam the doctor gave Whitly to finally kick in. 

When it did, he’d finally have some peace and quiet. 

God knows he more than deserved it.

_Along with a raise_ , he decided as he flipped to an article on fly fishing. 

Gabrielle was right there, he deserved one. 

Not that he was going to tell her that. 

There was already no living with her.

….

A line of police cars greeted Gil when he turned onto the street that led to the Gotham turnpike. A sliver of unease rolled through him as he stared at the flashing lights. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to what. Traffic accidents tended to spike at this time of year. The concept or slowing down and driving safe simply didn’t occur to some people. Gil loved his car too much to drive stupidly. He pulled up behind one squad car and exited his vehicle.

“Storm cause an accident?” he asked the uniformed officer standing by the front of the black and white cruiser. 

“A guy in a semi shot an officer in the face before turning the gun on himself.”

Horror and disbelief crashed over Gil. Murder-suicide was not uncommon at this time of year. The holidays brought out the best and worst in people. Still, a murder-suicide in the middle of a busy street was unusual. 

Even for New York. 

“ _What_?” He managed around the chunk of ice lodged in his throat. “An officer was shot?” A nod was confirmation. “What officer? Do you know their name?”

_Are they from Gotham?_

Gil didn’t ask that aloud. 

He feared the answer he’d receive. 

Not that the one he got was any better. 

“It was Shandi Cruz from the 2-7.” 

“Cruz?” His brow furrowed. “Isn’t her dad in narcotics?”

“Yeah, Luis is gonna be devastated ‘bout this.” The officer’s sigh fogged the icy air. “Shandi wasn’t even supposed to work tonight. Was pulling a double ‘cause half the precinct came down with a case of food poisoning this afternoon.” 

Something told Gil there was more to that food poisoning story than met the eye. He made a note to investigate it after he made sure Malcolm was safe and sound. 

“Is the Lincoln tunnel clear?” 

“Last I heard.” A frown creased the officer’s brow. “Why?”

“I need to get to Gotham.”

_And sooner rather than later_...

Gil turned to walk back to his car but stopped when he spied the man striding towards him. Bruce Wayne reminded Gil of a jaguar stalking its prey in the dim shadows. Anyone who thought the man nothing but a drunken wastrel clearly wasn’t paying close enough attention. The keen intellect in those electric eyes, the ripple of muscle beneath his expensive suit, and that lethal gait all spoke of a man who lived something other than a sedentary lifestyle. 

“You got caught, too?” he said once Bruce drew abreast of him. “I was about to head for the Lincoln tunnel.” 

“It’s blocked off.” Those eyes met his, spoke volumes. Gil swallowed the choice words that sprang to his tongue. Bruce glanced behind Gil. “What about here?” 

“Same.” 

“Berkeley.” A low growl escaped Bruce. “He’s doing everything he can to keep us from getting to Wayne Manor.” 

“He hasn’t blocked off all roads. Not just yet.” Gil indicated his car. “Get in. Still got one road we can take.” 

_I just hope Berkeley hasn’t thought of it..._

If he had... 

Gil didn’t let himself finish that thought. 

…

Dazed from the blow to the back of his head, Alfred struggled to hang on to consciousness. Rough hands rolled him over onto his back. A bright bite of pain ripped across the back of his head. Pride kept him from groaning. 

“Who’d ya find?” an unfamiliar voice rasped. “Wayne?”

“Looks like it’s his butler.”

“Yeah?” Boots crunched the debris covering the floor he washed himself that afternoon. “He alive?” 

Deciding it best to play possum given his condition, Alfred cracked his eyelids open just enough to make out the blurry figure leaning over him. Fresh pine and the stale stench of cigarettes invaded his nostrils. 

It took all of Alfred’s willpower to not curl his lips in disgust.

“Butler’s alive.” The mercenary turned his head to stare at his partner. “What‘aya think we should do with ‘im?”

The second came forward to join the first. Where the first mercenary was tall and lanky with a shock of red-orange hair, the second was shorter, broader, and bald. A scar zigzagged one cheek. Alfred didn’t bother to guess as to how he acquired it. 

“I say we waste ‘im.” 

“Huh.” The first mercenary scratched the back of his neck. _Not the sharpest of the pair_ , Alfred decided. “Nine didn’t outright say we could kill ‘im or the other two brats.” 

“Didn’t say we couldn’t, either.” 

The first squinted his good eye. “Good point.” 

He reached for the gun at his hip but a figure dropped behind him and grabbed the back of his head before he could pull it. 

“What the...?” was as far as he got before he found his head slammed against the head of the second mercenary. 

Both dropped without making a sound. 

“So is it just _me_...” Alfred stared up into Master Richard’s smiling face. “Or are the bad guys getting _dumber_?” 

Alfred sniffed as he accepted Master Richard’s hand. His head swam once he got to his feet, and his stomach pitched but he stiffened his spine. There would be time later to deal with his maladies. For now, there were four children in his care he needed to worry about.

“Where are Miss Raya and Master Malcolm?” he asked, tone clipped. “Master Jason?” 

“I sent Raya down to the Cave with Malcolm.” 

“It is the best place to send the boy,” Alfred agreed. “And Master Jason?” 

“Right here, Alfie.” Master Jason materialized on his left side. “No need to worry yourself.” 

“I’ll always worry, my dear boy,” Alfred told him. “Now, let’s get down to the Cave before anyone decides to come check on their comrades.” 

“I gotta way to stop ‘em if they do.” 

“How?” Master Richard asked, eyebrow arching.

Master Jason held up a grenade launcher with a pleased as punch expression on his face. “This’ll stop ‘em dead in their tracks.” 

Alfred didn’t bother to ask how the boy acquired the weapon.

He just confiscated it. 

…

The mercenaries forced him and Raya down the stairs and out into the cold night. A gasp escaped Malcolm as the biting air hit him. His thin cotton night pants, socks, and light sweater were scant protection from the frigid temperature. He glanced at Raya. Nothing showed on her face but a glacier calm. 

Save for her eyes. 

They glowed with the same mystic force they had that night at the docks. _And again in my hospital room at Bellevue_ , he realized as he was shoved roughly towards an SUV parked at the front gates. Pieces of a puzzle Malcolm had been handed but not put in their proper places fit themselves together, revealing a picture that rocked him to the core of his being. 

Raya was Fenix. 

It explained the physical similarities; the mental. 

Why Fenix moved with the grace of a ballerina. 

Why Raya fought with the fierceness of a lioness protecting her cubs. 

They were one and the same. 

That thought was quickly replaced by another, more damning one: he got her captured. 

_His fault._

This was all _his_ fault. 

Had he turned his father in sooner...

“ _Ah, but you see_ ,” his father said from inside the back of the SUV he was led too, “ _turning me in wouldn’t have stopped her mother from being, uh, well killed by her father_.”

Much as Malcolm hated to admit it, his father was right. 

Turning Martin Whitly in wouldn’t have stopped Matthew Berkeley from murdering his wife. It also wouldn’t have prevented Raya from becoming Fenix. _She became a hero because of what happened to her mom_ , he realized as he was roughly shoved into the back of the SUV. Malcolm expected Raya would be pushed in the back with him but let out a protest when he saw her being led to a second SUV a short distance away.

“No!” 

His outburst earned him a cuff to the side of his head that had him hearing bells. 

“Don’t fight, Malcolm,” Raya urged him. “Just don’t fight.” 

Not that he could with stars dancing behind his eyes. The doors were slammed shut. The ride across Gotham passed in a blur. Malcolm prayed for Batman, Gil, Commissioner Gordon, anyone to save them. 

Nobody did.

Fear wrapped itself around Malcolm’s throat and cinched tight. The dark things inside his head laughed and jeered.

His heart pounded; his blood pumped.

His breath came in short, shallow pants. 

His vision frayed at the corners. 

He needed to get out of that SUV and as far away from these men as he could. A quick look convinced Malcolm he could get the door open. All he needed to do was twist to his side, grab the handle, and shove. Rolling out as the SUV barreled down an empty street at ninety miles an hour? Well, it gave him a moments pause. He’d risk the pain, even death, if it gave Raya an opportunity to escape. _I don’t want her hurt_ , he decided, firming his jaw. _Not because of me_. 

Before he could make good on his decision, the SUV screamed to a stop. Malcolm was thrown against the side of the car. He grunted as his head slammed against the window. Pain exploded across the back of his head, left him seeing brightly colored balls, and fighting back the bile that foamed into his mouth. Rough hands grabbed him, drug him from the SVU. Malcolm struggled against their hands and earned a hard slap to the head for it. 

“Leave him alone!”

“Be quiet or we’ll do a lot worse to him.” 

Malcolm tried to send Raya a reassuring smile but he was hauled away before he could. A chill streaked through him as they entered a dank set of tunnels. A thick slime coated the crumbling brick walls. Rats and other things he didn’t want to think about scurried in the shadows. Raw sewage coursed through an endless sea of drains, the putrid odor turning his stomach into a volcano waiting to erupt. Bile rose at the back of his throat, choking him. 

Not that his tormentors cared.

They continued dragging Malcolm through this labyrinthine-like maze. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep track of all the twists and turns. Where they were going, he didn't know. They were far below ground, though. The dropping temperature and sound of water from somewhere close-by confirmed that. Globe lanterns provided enough light to navigate the slippery walkways by. Especially since the rusted, rickety guardrails didn’t look trustworthy. Malcolm entered a large chamber where two men, their lean and well-muscles bodies bathed in a thick sheen of sweat, loaded crates onto a roll cart. The workers stopped briefly to watch them, eyes narrowed into thin slits. They resumed their labors after a sharp word from the dark-skinned man who gripped his arm.

Malcolm was forced down another level to where a large plume of water cascaded into an underground river. A bridge had been fashioned to safely cross back and forth across the slow moving water. His breath fogged the air as he was forced across, the temperature near freezing. The cavern had been converted into some sort of importing and exporting hub. Dozens of metal boxes, most Malcolm suspected containing the weapons Gil told him about, were stockpiled on the other side of the river. 

Kids in torn and stained clothing, faces ash gray, and fear burning in the eyes that briefly met were loaded onto one of the six watercraft tied up at the makeshift dock. More were loaded into boats docked on the opposite bank. Their destinations were not something he wanted to think about. Armed men in GCPD riot gear eyed him with unholy amusement as they allowed them to pass. Malcolm’s temper surged but spluttered out when he spotted the tall, well-dressed man standing with his back turned at the railing. The light from the hanging lanterns added hints of caramel to the man's neatly cropped dark hair. 

Malcolm didn't have to see his face to know who he was. 

Matthew Berkeley. 

Raya's father.

_Birth father_ , he corrected as Berkeley glanced at him with eyes that were nothing but empty, black pools. Not even his father had eyes like this man's.

“Why have you brought them here?" His silky purr skittered along Malcolm’s already frayed nerves. "Were my instructions not clear?"

Malcolm was shoved to the ground at his feet. "Your instructions were to bring you the Whitly boy and your daughter.”

Berkeley turned to fully face him. He did not look pleased. “I wanted them taken to Berkeley Estate.”

"You didn’t specify that in our conversation."

"I should not have needed to specify where I desired them taken." Berkeley's full mouth thinned into a cold, hard line. “You should have known and taken them there.”

“Should have hired smarter mercenaries,” Raya said.

“Still have not learned to curb that tongue, Princess.”

“I’m chatty.” Raya folded her arms across her chest, notched her chin, and splayed her feet apart. A battle stance if Malcolm ever saw one. “It’s part of my charm.” 

“I’d remember who stands to be hurt if you don’t mind your manners.”

Malcolm’s heart stopped at those chilling words.

“You seem to be under the assumption that I’ll allow you to hurt Malcolm.” 

Berkeley chuckled darkly. “And how do you plan on stopping me?” 

“Not me.” A smirk tilted Raya’s lips. “Batman.”

“The winged freak won’t find you in time.” 

“Oh, there you’re wrong.” Raya fingered the necklace around her neck. “See, Batman knows exactly where we are.” Her eyes met Malcolm’s. Conveyed a request for him to remain silent. Not that she needed to ask. He had no desire to bring any unnecessary attention to himself. “He’s heading this way even as we speak.” 

Berkeley swung around to look at the tall, lanky man. “You did not search her before bringing her here?” 

“I did not,” the man admitted, suddenly looking ill at ease. “There was no—”

“I expressly told you to check my daughter for tracking devices.” Fury rippled in every word. “Batman is no fool. He’d have made sure to place some sort of tracking device on her.”

“But you were a fool, weren’t you?” Berkeley’s mouth peeled back in a snarl as he turned back to Raya. It was a look Malcolm recognized. One that filled him with terror and dread. Raya, on the other-hand, continued as if they were not in mortal danger. “You trusted Martin Whitly to murder me and my mother but he couldn’t, could he? I looked too much like her. A mirror image. Much as he thinks his son is of him.” 

Berkeley took a menacing step towards her. “An issue I will soon correct when I get rid of him.” A pause. Then he hissed, “And you.” 

Desperation surged inside Malcolm. He needed to do something; anything. It didn’t matter what happened to him, he couldn’t — _wouldn’t_ — allow Berkeley to kill Raya. He glanced around for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing. _Well_ , he amended as he glanced at the guns the officers were holding. _There are those._

They were not an option. 

Not unless he wanted to end up shot full of holes before he could help Raya. 

“You’ve tried to get rid of me for years,” Raya sneered. “You—”

Malcolm let out a gasp as Berkeley slapped her, hard, across the face. Tremors rocketed through his hands and up his arms, as well as through his knees. He shoved down his fear and panic and made to get to his feet but Raya stopped him with a shake of the head.

“Don’t.” 

“But—”

“We fall.” She moved her eyes to the churning water. “We rise.” 

Malcolm picked up on her subtle clue. Fall off the bridge into the water that churned a few feet below and swim to safety. 

It was a risky move. 

They could drown or freeze to death.

Either was preferable to whatever Berkeley planned for them. 

Malcolm cautiously turned his head to make sure nobody was paying any attention. 

Nobody was. 

Their attention was firmly fixed on Raya and her father.

_This is it_ , he told himself sternly. _This is our one and only chance to get out of this situation alive_.

Before Malcolm could surge to his feet and throw himself off the bridge into the foaming water below, the ground beneath him emitted a long, loud groan. Nervous cries and shouts sounded from the other tunnels as it started to violently shake. 

Metal whined; twisted.

Wood cracked; splintered. 

Rock broke; fell. 

The bridge tilted as the ground undulated in one long wave. People started to scatter as they realized the danger they were in. Malcolm watched, horribly transfixed as a huge chunk of the ceiling started to come loose. _We’re gonna be crushed to death_ , he realized as small pebbles pelted his face. It’s not bullets or knives that will get us. 

No, it was an act of nature. 

A hand grabbed his arm. 

“Malcolm, come on!” He was pulled down a set of stairs to the dock right as the ceiling started coming down. Berkeley’s howl of shock and rage mixed with Raya’s, “Jump!” 

Malcolm did as she commanded. Not like he had any other choice. It was a choice between hyperthermia, drowning or being crushed to death. 

The first two came with a slim chance of survival. 

The last not so much. 

He instantly sank beneath the surface. Malcolm was a moderately decent swimmer when fear wasn’t trembling through his limbs. The waters freezing temperature also didn’t help. The shock of it left him gasping. Water gushed into his mouth and filled his nostrils, making him gag. 

Panic set in, turned his limbs to jelly. His lungs started to burn. His vision slid from red to gray to black. Before he lost consciousness a hand grabbed hold of him and pulled him up. Up towards salvation. 

And desperately needed air. 

“I’ve got you,” he heard Raya over the buzzing filling his head. “I’ve got you.”

The current caught a hold of them then and carried them into a long, dark tunnel.

Malcolm prayed it was towards salvation and not the damnation he deserved.


	29. Chapter 29

Wayne Manor looked as if a war had been fought inside its hallowed halls. The stout doors bore evidence of explosive charges being used to blow them off their hinges. What remained spewed across the marble floor in sharp splinters that crunched beneath Gordon’s wingtips as he slowly made his way inside. His blood bubbled beneath his skin as he stared at the devastation. _Berkeley_. His jaw clenched as his fingers curled around the gun he held in front of him. _He’s to blame for this._

Of his niece, Malcolm Whitly, Alfred, Dick or Jason there was no sign. 

Even as Gordon prayed they got somewhere safe before Berkeley’s mercenaries arrived, he knew they hadn’t. “We’re too late.” 

“Jim...” 

“We’re too late, Harvey.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Where are they then?” Helpless rage sizzled, was ruthlessly rejected. “Huh? Where are they?” 

“I don’t know.” Bullock heaved a sigh. “I don’t know where they are.”

“If you are speaking of us, Detective Bullock,” a refined voice spoke from behind them. “We are right here.” 

Gordon spun around, hope burning in his gut. Alfred, looking a little worse for wear, stood beside Dick Grayson. Next to him was Jason Todd with a small kitten nestled in his arms.

Malcolm Whitly and Raya, however, were absent. 

“Raya?” Not like Gordon needed to ask. He already knew the answer. “The Whitly boy?” 

“Taken.” 

“Dammit!” Bullock swore. “Berkeley could have taken them anywhere!”

“Berkeley Estate is—”

“Commissioner,” Dick interrupted. “I know where they were taken.” 

Gordon took a step towards the stone-faced boy. “Where, son?” 

“The tunnels under Gotham.” 

“Tunnels?” Gordon’s brow furrowed. “Where he was building his underground city?”

“Yes.”

Gordon still had nightmares, and the scars, from his last trip down into those tunnels. “How do you know that is where he took them?” 

“Batman put a tracker on Raya after Berkeley sent men to Bellevue.” Dick held up a tracking device. “He gave Bruce one of these to keep track of her.”

“Tate,” Bullock barked. “Get on the radio. Have all available units meet us at the waste disposal center.” Tate left with a nod. “The rest of you follow the Commissioner.” 

Gordon heard his officers murmur their assents but was too fixated on getting to his niece and the Whitly boy to respond. He made to leave but a sound, much like that of a dozen tanks rolling down the street broke the silence.

“What the hell?” 

That was all Harvey got out before the ground went out from beneath them. 

...

All across New York, Gotham, Blüdhaven, and New Jersey, fire hydrants hemorrhaged water as the ground beneath them cracked; split. 

Pipes and sewer mains burst, gargoyles plummeted from their lofty perches, cables and wires snapped, and power lines sizzled as they crackled the trembling ground. 

All four cities went black as transformers and generators failed. 

In Manhattan, Jessica Whitly grabbed her daughter and pulled her into a doorway as paintings bounced off the walls, vases crashed to the floor, and perfume bottles turned over on her vanity. 

“It’ll be okay,” she told Ainsley as she wrapped her arms around her and held tight. “It’s going to be okay.” 

She hoped it would be, anyway. 

...

The streets were a sea of pandemonium as Raya pulled herself up out of the sewer. Gotham was pitch black. A glance across the harbor showed much of New York was, as well. _Blown transformers and downed power lines_ , she decided as she turned and helped Malcolm out. 

Horns honked frantically as cars tried to stop before driving into the huge holes in the road. Brakes squealed, sirens bleated, vehicles collided. 

Panic ensued.

Flames and smoke belched from the gaping holes carved in the street by the cataclysm. More billowed from buildings on both sides. Water gushed from broken hydrants and water mains. Electrical wires dangled, snapping and hissing as they danced over the heads of the pedestrians fleeing in terror. 

“My god,” she breathed as she led Malcolm out of the path of destruction. “The city has been...” her voice trailed off, words escaping her at the devastation all around them. 

“We need to get somewhere safe and dry.” 

Malcolm’s voice was raspy from swallowing a gallon of water. His skin was nearly translucent, lips almost blue. Worry and concern at him either dying from hyperthermia or developing pneumonia shot through her. 

_I need to get him inside and out of those wet clothes._

There was only one place nearby she considered safe enough, though. “We’re near the old GCPD building in Amusement Mile.” Raya reached for his hand. It was like ice. “We’ll be safe there.” 

_And I can get you warmed up._

They followed the path of destruction over into Amusement Mile. Confused and terrified people roamed the street, searching for missing family and friends, for a safe place. Raya maneuvered through the chaotic maze while dodging downed power lines and geysers of foaming water, smoke and gulping fountains of flames.

They skirted a huge crack in the asphalt and approached the GCPD. The building looked to have weathered the worst of the quake. Only minor structural damage was evident from the outside. No smoke or flames burst from the windows or roof which was a positive sign the interior hadn’t sustained any major sort of damage. The worst was the water seeping up from the underground parking garage. It hadn’t reached the front entrance as of yet. It would soon, though. _Take the positives while we can_ , Raya decided as she led Malcolm up the front steps and inside. Navigating the entry in the dark wasn’t easy. The ground had fractured in many places and there was glass and other debris to worry about. 

Malcolm’s chattering teeth and quaking hand hurried her along. Hot showers were out of the question and she couldn’t risk a fire until she had time to check for gas leaks. Dry clothing and blankets were all they could hope for at that moment. Raya made it to the main bullpen with only a few obstacles getting in her way. Memory had her skirt around the cubicles and desks to reach the locker room. 

“Sit on the bench,” she instructed as she moved about, feeling for the items she needed. “And start getting that wet clothing off.” 

“Ah...”

“The darkness preserves your modesty.” 

“Uhm, okay.” 

There was a wet slop. _His sweater_ , Raya mused, lips curving. There was another a second later. Then two more. _Socks, undershirt, and pants._

“Here.” She handed a towel over her shoulder. “Dry yourself off and then wrap up in this blanket while I try to find clothes.”

“In the dark?” His skepticism was clear. 

“If I find a flashlight, your modesty goes out the window.” 

“In the dark it is.”

“Thought so,” she teased as she made her way through the dark.

…

At Claremont Psychiatric, guards worked to keep their population under control while waiting for the backup generator to kick on. Most patients took refuge under their beds to wait for the ground to stop shaking. The few that didn’t sat in corners, tearing at their hair, and rocking back and forth. 

Mr. David considered himself lucky. 

He only had Martin Whitly to deal with. 

“My boy,” the doctor mumbled. “He killed my boy.”

And he was a big enough pain in the ass. 

“I deserve overtime pay and a raise,” he muttered as he checked to make sure Whitly’s restraints were secure. “Gabrielle’s right.”

For Mr. David, the future held one thing: a well earned vacation.

...

Deep within the Intensive Treatment ward of Arkham Asylum, a man sat in his private little cell, laughing a deep, throaty laugh as he considered the events that just happened. His boring night certainly took an interesting turn when the ground started to shake, rattle, and roll! 

Verdant eyes glinted with glee while crimson lips twisted into a grin as he listened to the shouts and cries from the floors above. 

He could well imagine ole Sharpie was hiding in his office, fearful for his life, and well-being. _And why shouldn’t he_? the man mused as he rocked back and forth on his cot, cackling. The inmates were now free to run the asylum. Those state of the art communication systems Sharpie installed became unusable once the power went out. The closed-circuit cameras staff used to spy on the asylums diverse population became about as useful as a spatula mixing concrete. All of the security measures Sharpie designed to keep those like him in place were rendered completely ineffective. 

The guards couldn’t walk their constant patrols. Not with the locks opened and doors to the funhouse tossed wide open. Each and every one of the technological modifications good ole Sharpie made to the asylum's security system to protect the population from those requiring more strict measures were now the ones that’d keep _him_ from escaping. The only thing that’d have made it better was if _he_ had orchestrated things himself. He hadn’t been the one to manipulate the string of events that befell the city of Gotham that evening. 

Oh, no.

The manipulator of that night's events was sheer dumb luck. Granted, this cataclysm lacked the sorta pizazz and flare that he had. 

Ah, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers! 

An earthquake splitting the city at the seams was still a hoot! 

Much like Gotham would be once the dust settled and the animals all left their cages. 

He giggled as he stared out into the darkened hallway. The city didn't yet know what its intended fate was. They’d find out soon enough. 

Yes, they, along with his dear Dark Knight would soon discover what being part of the madhouse was really like. They, the people of Gotham, could do nothing to stop him from executing his greatest plan. Same as they could do nothing to stop the earthquake that ripped the streets of their city apart. 

Gotham had become No Man’s Land. 

And he couldn’t wait to get out there to play in that concrete jungle. 

For the Clown Prince of Crime, this earthquake represented one thing, and one thing only: possibilities.

His high, keening laugh echoed throughout the asylum, annoying the other supervillains still confined to their cages, and scaring the guards and staff who only now realized they were locked inside the madhouse with the crazies. 

Without hope for rescue. 

Or escape. 

...

Raya stepped out onto the roof of the GCPD shortly after changing into the sweats and sweatshirt she found in one of the lockers she pilfered. The sweatshirt was three sizes to big, the sleeves hung over her hands to her knees, and the pants required rolling up five times to keep her from tripping on them. They were warm and dry. That was what mattered at that moment. 

Memories from another night she walked out onto the roof of a GCPD building played through her mind as she padded across the rooftop. It hadn’t been an earthquake that necessitated her reaching out to the Dark Knight that night. No, she had needed him to protect her from the men her father sent after her. Getting in touch with Batman, though, hadn’t been as simple as picking up the telephone and calling him. There wasn't a listing for _Batman_ in Gotham’s telephone directory. 

_Still isn’t_ , she mused as she stared out over the ravaged city. _Batman still isn’t listed in the phonebook_. 

Well, not the real one, anyway. 

The only person with a phone number was her uncle. 

That came about after Batman rescued her from her father’s men. As had the other means of contacting him. Raya stopped beside the searchlight perched upon its heavy-duty metal case. A larger one sat on top of the main headquarter building over on Bleake Island, and another atop the station at Burnley, the latter formerly led by her uncle before his promotion to Commissioner. The bat-shaped symbol she had fixed to that klieg spotlight to call Gotham’s grim hero to the roof of the GCPD building hadn’t been pretty, but it brought Batman to her.

Tonight, this searchlight would serve a dual purpose. It would not only send a message to Batman, but to the people of Gotham, as well. 

Telling them they were not alone. 

Their silent guardians were there still.

They’d keep the monsters in the dark back so their city could do what it always did: rise. 

…

Gil stood staring at the calamity before him with disbelief. _How could one night have so much happen in such a short amount of time_? he wondered.

Was this what life was like for the man standing silent beside him? 

A never ending catastrophe? 

A cataclysm of events? 

He turned to ask but his gaze was captured by a strange image blasted across Gotham’s night sky. 

“What’s that?” 

“A message.” Amusement mixed with pride. 

“A message?” Gil looked over at him, one brow tilted. “From who?” 

“Raya.” 

Gil shook his head, not understanding how the crude image could be a message from Raya. “But...” 

“Seven years ago,” Bruce explained, gazing off into the distance. “Raya used a version of that image to call a dark and tormented hero to her for help.” 

“Now she’s telling that dark and tormented hero she needs him.” 

“No.” Bruce’s lips curved. “She’s telling him she doesn’t need him to come save her.” His eyes met Gil’s. Shared secrets. “She saved herself.” 

“She also saved Malcolm.” 

_And wasn’t that ironic_ , he realized as he looked again at that oddly shaped bat-symbol. _A child born to a monster saved a child born to a monster_. 

The same. 

That was what Martin Whitly always said to Malcolm. 

_Well, Malcolm is more like Raya than he is his father._

They were mirror images. 

Near perfect reflections of the other. 

Only, one of them grew up and became a hero. 

_That’s it,_ Gil realized as a cold wind blew. _That’s why she chose to help Malcolm._

To show him he wasn’t a monster like his father. 

He was a hero. 

_Like her._

At that moment, the future started to shine with one thing for Gil Arroyo: hope.

...

At Wayne Manor, Gordon and Bullock helped a wobbly, but still composed Alfred out into the cold night. Dick and Jason, holding the small kitten to his chest, followed a few steps behind, each one covered in dust.

“Do you think the earthquake hit New York?” Dick asked as Gordon helped Alfred into the back of the SWAT van. “Or do you think it only struck here?”

“It definitely hit New York, son.” How badly, Gordon didn’t yet know. He’d been busy here when the earthquake struck and not been able to receive a status report on the radio. “Won’t know how bad things are until we get back to the city.” 

Where they could resume the hunt for his niece and the Whitly boy. As if he discerned his thoughts, and given how long they had been partners and friends, it was likely he had, Bullock set a hand on Gordon’s shoulder.

“Sprockets fine, Jim.” 

“We don’t know that, Harv.” Gordon’s jaw clenched as he imagined all the ways Berkeley could harm Raya and the Whitly boy. If the earthquake didn’t get them, first. “We don’t even know where they are.”

“Commissioner!” Jason cried suddenly. “Look!” 

Gordon turned to see a crude-shaped silhouette stamped on the velvet curtain. 

“Amusement Mile...” Gordon breathed on a sigh of relief. “She managed to escape from wherever Berkeley took her and headed for the old GCPD building in Amusement Mile.” 

“Calling for the Bat to come and save her.” Bullock tipped his fedora back and squinted at the sky. “Just like she did seven years ago.” 

“No.” All eyes turned to Dick. A faint smile curved his lips. “She’s not calling Batman to come save her.” 

“What’s she doing then?” Jason cocked his head to the side as he let Anna crawl inside his hoodie. “Why’d she put it up if she ain’t calling Batman for help?” 

“She put it up to let him know she _doesn’t_ need him.”

“But.” Jason frowned his confusion. “That makes no sense.” 

“Actually, son.” Gordon smiled at Bullock and Alfred. “It makes perfect sense.” 

The world, while bleak and uncertain at that moment, came with the assurance that no matter what, his girls would be just fine. 

He and Bruce Wayne, his most unlikely ally, raised two strong, intelligent, and capable woman. 

And that filled James Gordon with one thing: fatherly pride.

...

Malcolm stared in disbelief at the city ravaged by the massive earthquake from the roof of the police building. He had never seen such devastation wrought in such a short amount of time. 

Not this up close and personal. 

Fires burned everywhere he looked. Smoke reached up towards the sky with greedy, grasping fingers. Water geysered from hydrants busted loose when the ground around them split open. Power lines snapped and sizzled as they undulated on the busted asphalt. Screams came from all around Malcolm, flooded into him, through him, overwhelmed him. A ridiculous urge to cover his ears with his hands came over him but he rejected it. 

He wasn’t a child, despite the way his mother tended to treat him.

Pleas for help mixed with the shouts. Malcolm suspected aide would come to most after it was too late. There was no way emergency crews could get to everyone. Too many people needed help. Not that cops, firefighters, and ambulances didn’t try.  
Sirens bleated as emergency vehicles tried to reach those most in need, swirling lights cast eerie shapes on the buildings shrouded in shadows, and garbled voices ordered people to, “get back,” so they could, “get through.”

A flash caught Malcolm’s eye and he looked up in time to see flames dancing along the bridge connecting Gotham with New Jersey. _Trapped_ , he realized, heart dropping into his queasy belly. _We’re trapped here._ A shiver from more than the cold ran through him. 

“Here.” A jacket was draped over his shoulders. “This will help keep you warm.”

“No,” Malcolm protested. “You...”

“Are trained to withstand this weather.”

“You were soaked through like me.” 

“Batman has Robin and I swim in the harbor and jog to Wayne Towers routinely as part of our training.” 

Malcolm couldn’t begin to fathom the amount of training Raya had received from the Dark Knight. It was yet another reminder about how vastly different their lives were. 

Raya Kean might be as rich as he was, and as privileged, but she also served Gotham and its people. 

As herself and as Fenix. 

Malcolm lifted his eyes to her somber ones. 

“I want to be trained like you.” 

“You will be, Malcolm.” Her eyes glowed with the same mystical force they had on the night they met. “You will be.”

“But...” His brow furrowed. “The people of Gotham...” 

Her head tilted to the side. “What about the people of Gotham?” 

“They’re going to need Fenix.” 

_And Batman and Robin._

“They’ll have Fenix and plain ole Raya Kean, I assure you.” 

“You’re not plain.” 

Nothing about Raya was simple or ordinary. 

She was, quite simply, the most extraordinary girl he ever met. 

“Neither are you, Malcolm Whitly.” She drifted close as a gust of wind brought the unmistakable scent of burning wood, raw sewage, the brine of the water rushing in below, and night-blooming jasmine. “I’m quite looking forward to showing you how truly remarkable you actually are.”

And in that moment Malcolm started to see the future as the one thing he had never seen as it as before: bright. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My OCD cannot handle 29 chapters so here’s an end credit trailer I made and link to a wallpaper 😂

[Mirror, Mirror (Wallpaper)](https://www.deviantart.com/missscorp/art/Mirror-Mirror-cover-862552027)

[Mirror, Mirror (Superhero Trailer)](https://vimeo.com/475270184)


End file.
